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The coffee house, the bar. Political canaries. Thugs. Manipulators. Lowlifes. Currencies of kills. Night creatures. History's games bemoan a draw. Kills skirt perfection. History's games bemoan honor, ...
The coffee house, the bar. Political canaries. Thugs. Manipulators. Lowlifes. Currencies of kills. Night creatures. History's games bemoan a draw. Kills skirt perfection. History's games bemoan honor, purpose, strength. History sets traps. Death sets traps.
Atonement. Survival. Empires built, deployed. Time is a stage. Actors act through of time.
She was quite the sensual, wondrous toy, Sweet Amy. She was quite the user, hustler, abuser, lover, killer, breaker, saint. She had friends, she reeked of acquaintance. She had a magic past. She was the apple of my eye, a smoldering cauldron of sin, a temple of want, origins wrapped in enigma, a sashay to cherish and a song to match.
The blonde works for a gambler. Her father is a linchpin in a game of dear survival. Kaye is a smoldering cauldron of sin, a temple of want. She too is wrapped in enigma, a sashay to cherish and a song to match, my wisp of a wife, an aphrodisiac with coldness of purpose, nights of thrills, intimidation, vulnerabilities lurking; she has paths open to searing sins of seminal miscalculation. The muse must be cherished.
Depression America. Mid century America. World Wars. Aftermath of war. The high twenties. The rough hewn teens. Games played. Base myths. Back alleys. Dark places. Modern times. The hard scrabble thirties.
"The will business is a fascinating business, young Steele," Amy had said. "The conditions imposed on us by mere existence, Steele," she said, "offer countless variations on basic themes," she said. "The will business is a fascinating business," Amy said.
She was pure or not, my reward or not, my savior or not. "Tell me," she said, "of veins of ice, wills of iron, men of steel. Tell me," she said, "of men so bent and weary with the weight of the world on their noble backs. Tell me about the insurmountable," she said.
Muses skirt perfection. A trip through lovers' lane, searing challenges, hard victories. Love, yearning, fear. A soldier, mercenary, businessman runs with a young lady, an accomplished actress, an American sweetheart Identities fuse with purpose, libidos with the dregs of history, wills with fulfillment.
"I can make you sell your mother, your father, your past, your future just for a whiff of me, a whiff of my clothes, a look at me in the pale light," she said. "I can make you beg to take a fancy ride with me to the left side of hell," she said.
"We empower the currency of will, Steele," he said. "We yield to the temptation of corruption," he said. "We see as men of ability see, Steele," he said. "We structure in our little goals."
Bazaars, back alleys, base myths. Intimidation stalks time and decades. A tempered stew radiates out from the sinews and muscles of longing and regret. Sweet honor.
The hero wished his ideal. Death seeks his muse. The good strive to survive. The hero, The ex wife. The killer? The killed? The temptation of slyness. The firmness of all true hearts. The dashing tricks of an icon.
Time a strange longing myth. The world an art. The kill is the winning bastard, chasing down the scurrying flock. It is for honor and freedom that we rush through our journeys, the chase after the end of the rainbow. Breakers break, killers kill, owners own. Those that dehumanize dehumanize.
Swirling plays for the depths of men's souls stir the chase. Swirling plays of power and greed stir the games at hand. Good judgment, the follies of character, the dregs of time are there to keep us company.