...Tick-tock, meat-clock

Simple words cannot express the depths that those eyes contain. Nor can they explain the murmuring, bubbling, melodies that are conjured in the compressing darkness below. Deep below the glittering, complaisant surface of such a yearning face. Busy lips - like perfectly pretty social pendulums - mark the passing of lived time like a carnal clock. Exhausted ears are dead to her plaintive songs of soul-searing sorrow. Those bleak ballads have no beginning, nor end, just an infinite repeat-play of an inescapable middle.