Song of Breasts

In solitude, the individual desparately contemplates upon the question of life, of every creature's eventual facing. Forwardly you look and hence you find yourself in that very trap where you can make no further decision but eventually fall into this haven filled with supposed softness (then endless prosperity of sins and misdeeds and the condemnation of hell). Through which your sight you should feel the warmth of your mother's milk bleeding, your father's tongues licking, your baby sucking, other babies starving. Get even more contemplate, and folding itself across your sight is the vast size of it, an ocean of uneven up and downs. The smell of sourness, the taste of foul industrial poisoness, the sight of holes after holes filled either with red blood or black dried blood. In the middest of this pile of this supposed whitish ether (but in reality just a stinch between the mounts) where men after men lost their sanity and possessed themselves with the imaginary idolization of these "snow-white mounts". These pieces of flesh which induced the very soul of mankind into what the good Lord once in long past called paradise.

Now, the question of life. The shape, the size, the width, the smoothness, the tenderness. The questions of perfection, of how to toture those poor creatures born with destiny to carry the true weapon of mass destruction and delete the human intelligence from their handling, just leaving their faces burried in the pink between the white. The men found their weakness unbearable, someone must pay the sins. With the Lord behind their power, they head to clean out the contemporary and create a new Eden, locking the deviously tempting height behind iron bars. Lost are the natural shape and introduced are new measures of perfection. Funny though, how it goes, the ugly little things only got uglier as nature lost its glory in the fight and men only found them more and more tempting for now it takes a few red wine nights and good a few more rose bushes just to obtain a sweet little glimpse of those precious thing (of course, if you'd rather spend $2 for a video, $500 for a whore, $0 but slap in the face by your sister, $0 but grounded for life by your mother, you might get more glimpses in easier fashions).

My breasts are deformed. Hence was the word spoken by the very Goddess of the family. In the world of commercialization (as I've counted above) such deformness only degrades even more the ugliness of the originally ugly paramounts (well, if they were paramounts, I needn't worry so much). Hence, behind the bars I was again introduced, deprived of that which we called nature and that which breed us live and soul and physical existence. The funny question then is, will this truly, though uglier, produce a more efficient effect on seducing men into oblivion?