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There was something of a forest about him, an odour of summer he spread far and wide. Befouled by tears, men broke to pieces; so from roots' keep, he never strayed far. His spirit entire, a calm that sat upon his face.
When dusk arrived and a quick sheen from the brightest waters vanished, he created curved forms from scrolls that he was meant to send back to Leaf; but the nights were lonely, stains that grew on walls without a passion rubescent and sharp.
The spirit that slept stayed slumbering, in its place the flesh awakening. An infuriate impulse, like a tide, setting in from a place that was sweeter than Leaf's aroma; and it bore down every reason before it . . . and images would cross his eyes . . . a youthful shape compressed in a rich Kimono, bosom bountiful, as the bursting leaves contain spring's blossoming buds.
Leaf's Shinobi, he inspired sanguinary, blood on one side; but this was the meal he had not learnt to taste. His room, frowsty, stuffed with sighs, hand going to squeeze the object that ached and oozed signs thick as sugary syrups. Soon, his palm was slick and slimy, grip spiraling up and down the organ engorged with blood, inmost regions between the thighs clammy.
The state would not pass; and how he wished to slip the excited organ into a tight place, expel the fluids in a fever haste . . . right between the lips whose rim was red as rivers choked up with war's passing; and then it was done, a fervour that from him was on a run, hand coated with long strips of mellow whites.
And when he looked about, the room was emptier than before . . .
You'd shed deciduous teeth some years back, yet I see blood in your mouth! The milk is pink, but you're young, with cheeks pinker than the drink. Brother, tell me what you see . . . I will listen . . .
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