In the epoch of epistolary enigmas, where sentences casually combust, a love forged not in fire but in acrid ink. Corrosive caresses on parchment, whispering sweet sinters.
She said:
"Dare I dance with words unworthy? Your metaphors burn bright, kindling my soul, yet sear my senses with their sweet, acrid melody."
Hover over these letters and watch them fold dialogue into nonsense:
The skyline of verbage distills to a chorus of harmonious whispers, imploring the rain to edit its prose.
Beneficial, yes. Poisonous, absolutely. Hear the noise of silence singing?
The tidal lull engulfs us; serenades of professionals masquerading as amateurs.