Fanciful tales piqued one's imagination resting ruefully in the seat of conscience troubling. Mme. Shelley, the outpouring of creativity abode in dark recess soul's prison. From Whence didst thou retrieve it? Dare one even believe it? Percy Bysshe wept, then laughed, as his heart conspired with it.
Monstrous in appearance yet exceptional in intellect, how you lumber through the gray corridors seeking reason. Psycho-sexual myth and domination are your forte derived from the mindless primitive. Of you, no one can be imitative. An obtruder dared think himself "Supreme" and for his trouble, in life, did hell glean. He, and I, borne of lighting, thunder and the need to vex waxed fiercely poured out in torrents...find ourselves oft told. Dear lady, I am enamored of thee!