Oh wow, she smiled when she sat down. Was she smiling at me? I hope so. She’s so pretty. No, she’s beautiful. Not sexy or cute, but beautiful, like a woman. God, she is just made of curves, one after another, like some marble statue into which a tortured artist poured all his heart and soul and beliefs about what is beautiful in this world. She is a goddess, the liveliness of springtime, the freedom of summer, the colors of autumn, and the clean beauty of winter and gosh I really hope she doesn’t fart.

She is perfect, pristine, immaculate. The way that dress hugs her, she must have been born wearing it; it hang so naturally, clinging in all the right ways, teasing me with its mysteries. Oh- she looks so focused on taking notes, a scholar and a beauty, truly this is the pinnacle of human development. She is the alpha and the omega, I am forever hers, this angel among us, as long as she doesn’t fart.

Those eyes like gemstones, fiery gems set in the perfect landscape of her face. Her hands, her feet, her shoulders and knees and mouth and hair. To bury my face in that hair! Every love song and poem and tragic Shakespearean play now rings true. I understand! I exalt in my newfound clarity, thanks to you, my muse. Sing to me, O muse, of song and dance and good food with good friends, of starlit nights and new moons, of fresh-cut grass and-

Nevermind. Actually I need to move to another seat. I, oh god… What did she eat?!

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