Always seems to capture my emotions perfectly with his prose.
You must have sensed it too.
You must have felt it.
The change in the light. The decline in intensity.
The words less muscular. The energy less charged. The sexuality less certain.
The sensuality softened. The passion all spent.
There is a reason for his being here, but he is no longer sure what it is.
He only knows that he is fading faster. Day by day. Night by night.
And that these pages leave less distinct, fainter, softer, impressions.
They are no longer compelling.
He can only give you shadows.
It isn’t enough for him.
Or for you…
Painting by Anne Magill