Week of little Textual Harassment (exp.): Weapon of mass seduction on unsound foundations automatically receive anonymous and fine phrases (almost) without consequences to the elected to his heart. (Sociopath Dictionary, 2004)
Monday
Miss
The first time I've seen, the Fa has shifted beneath my feet, whereas normally it is the Sol, it's you say if I was troubled.
Tuesday
Miss
Put Cupid on short I never emerged as a necessity. Especially in view of the disastrous economic situation that currently suffering the archangels following the devastating stock market crash of action of heaven on our good old planet entirely subject to the temptations and sins of the evil indestructible. But so, poor boy goes without doubt the halo away bite, but he can keep his arrows in his quiver. One will suffice. Touché.
Wednesday
Miss May I draw your kind attention, oh undeserved, on the assumption actually quite plausible (although ridiculously uninteresting) that may well be that, by the merest chance, and any remaining credibility in proportions sufficient to safely move the tight control your skepticism, it is therefore possible that there is down here for a very small possibility that, Miss, I finally allowed my great shame to confess unvarnished my pen and my heart loosens plucks at each of your as brief and sudden appearances qu'éclairées an aura that only you possess.
Thursday
Miss
I hate poets. Deliciously. There is nothing that makes me laugh out loud more than the figure of speech discomfited the young romantic disheveled in the wind while walking beside the raging sea, the dark curls of his bush flying her face while her carefully spray whip long coat worn pockets artistically holes, in which he pressed his thin hands of aesthetic moaning about the evil nature of the world groans studious that accompanies multiple quotes Baudelaire learned in the glow of the candle and tear around in her little room for students Bobos Arts. So insist no, I do not write you a poem. Or very short. Here is one. Fairly short, you'll see:
Mademoiselle.
is you.
That's all. That
.
Friday
Miss
From the time you receive my share of authentic and no less delicate fiery missives, I despair of ever receiving an answer, a sign. It is true, the role of a poor innocent victim and shamefully persecuted by the sexually obsessed manic-depressive service that puts Hannibal the cannibal for a charming host summer camp, that role, of course, is not easy. But you would go beautifully, and I see that you definitely do not make any effort to get into this character I've patiently offered long feathers.
Saturday
Miss
What was my surprise to receive this message from your hand gently signed. I therefore invite you to an appointment. What wonderful progress. Nay, a leap forward, one small step for mankind but a big jump from the fallen angel by the life I am. What a charming attention. What a voluptuous sensation. What a magnificent folly. I would not. Not crazy, wasp, if you think your honey is enough to attract irretrievably the bee in your nets, the hive was rude. I do not know for whom you take me, but I'm not what you think. I'm not one to sleep the first night, much less to be seduced by stratagems as shameless as you.
Sunday
Miss
As you've probably been able to appreciate, I yielded to your sirens and changed his mind at the last moment.
I came.
I've seen.
I am defeated.
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