34" Belt, 32" Waist

This is a prose written from the mind of a man two holes to the left of the last, with jeans, jeans of consciousness, inches wider than the waist.

This is the prose of a man below the waistline, that being the best clue he can bestow. From their comes this poem he speak, and from their his heart do hang, to the mercy of onlookers both peer and rival. For they are they who judge the lives of men.

From this place I so spake, at the expense of my cabulaire, the vessel of my chords and the bearer of sovereign thought. It is the gatekeeper that guards me from the cuts suffered he who sees safety in Kenshin's reversed blade, and the chain linking the Cerberus' faces against the sovereignty of my thought. For through this organ, not organ by nature, but by utility, I strum the words that seem romantic to my meaning and listens the crowd, both nodding and shifting as they feel appropriate; the account of my character so justly but unlawfully based.

From this place do my thoughts bestow, though my mind here take respite. And what better place than to unearth the truths of my sentiment. It is here that the Cerberus ear has fallen it prey to the songs matched before only in the Japanese fictions of Puff and Tuff. It is here that my mind, in its eventful slumber, discovers its mind before itself, and thoughts, though honest before, run deeper to elixir's truth. It is here, then, that I find myself willing to speak what, if spake with fitting pant, would not retain its sovereign delight, nor be appreciated in memory as it be appreciated in record.

From this message now, as gates do the wicked, a first final glance must be granted they who venture here. From mind unattended and fear incompelled comes truth unrelented. Though fact be created of chaotic lie, fact from rested fact is fact, alone, conceived.

'anna...you occupy the passageways, not they that wander the maize of my thought, nor they posted along its walls where memories, be they sweet or bitter, share their hosteline discomfort. But instead a fellow shifter of the walls. In your company is determined the course of our days and the cost to those Sisters to divulge, through sights both quarreled and equitted, the length of our starlit eve.

Good Morrow, y'all.