I'm screaming at the peak of weak lungs, but my voice fades out somewhere between the battlefields and the wars we've won, between the sheets and this matress. The title of a companion is abated to the display of a wound. Another notch on the belt for gluttony and lust. A walk of shame will drain the beauty of a beast, a venture where even lions trade their pride for a lamb's sleepless night. The marionette they oppress with a shear ministry of novelty. Will this providence be less impressed with a vague roulette in the course of intimacy? We take far to kindly to our uncertanties. So let our appetites take hold, and swallow this night whole. Become unchaste, debauched in lechery. Forfeit our contraband unto immoral decoys.