...be aroused by traces of my smile — a peony's taste at the arch of your lips, a canvas of incidents expressed with the force of gravity at the power of ambition and hope, in the finesses of a fantasy, metamorphosed with the art of a kiss… for the fault of an overwhelming attraction, incited by distance and accessed, discreetly, with that luring call at 1-800-love of the morning heat, subjugated in a blue opaline confusion of a dream