Sweet crush of blue, simmering in dreamlike heat, the ripe splendor of heavenly hearts as they forge their broken fate. I hear the silent waves. They crash with bitter resolve, a swift melting pot of history frozen in forward motion, the sweeping plane of existence bent in perpetual siege.

Look there, trapped in suspension, a singular crimson dot, a planet filled with glowing embers and wine, an ornament placed by the delicate hand of God. Deep within is a lovely crystal brain, a living-breathing memoir for the henchman and his tribe, a righteous cup stolen for the greater gears of war.

You see, passion is like fiction, a story made up with pagan dancers, each naked in their virgin pose, a filthy tango between gravity and light. To revel in misery, there must be union, a matrimony of unholy parts, the high treason of man versus woman, husband versus wife, each engulfed in the heart of dismay.

Indeed, the inferno rages onward, the hot pull of red on blue. These savages know my fury, like political dogs on fire, they eat their own, a simple flea biting the ass of an elephant. I taste the bubbling fear, the salted kiss of mermaids boiling in magma, the soft stink of seaweed and rot, a lonely crab skittering along the quiet beach, no wiser to my folly. Yes, this is Danse Chagrin.