/lit/ - Literature

First time on this thread, I dread.

On my now inhospitable room, of which there's not much beyond a broom, my dear troon. A gente breeze comes to towers, the flowers that are outside my deepest imagination, as for that creation, of the yosodic and malkutian realms. Ah, but Eros, that terrors, of being a virginal male, meanwhile the world runs on sinful orgies or desire and glutonny of the flesh. But who am I to judge, if I have been commited also to a world of pattetic imitation of the world.
My brown dog, with brown pupils, like honey, my dear honey, for which I will give all my money. Look at me with desire to eat, but I have no money. But his toddler cries bother my soul, my heart, my mind.
There's nothing else to do, except admire the idiocy of this website, which I decry.
My dear chud.