Dear Diary,
Much hath happened since we past spoke, ever dearest diary. Too much. Too much.
Imagine a sandy-haired woman, possessed of a pair of ice blue eyes, as azured two turquoise gemstones. A potential partner: an artist, an historian, a gardner. So, Maxy became very drunk and all the rest, the trimmings borne of debauched journeys filled with smokey haze, lost eyes, and pulsing hearts. Throbbing unsated lust. A sea of music. No-one knows the ins and outs of this affair save the two parties concerned.
"Janie" is a pagan, an open minded horticulturalist, about my age, perhaps a half a dozen anné on me. It's all good. If any of you who've read my diary before will know that this Phœnix has been through some tought times: know that now is the high-time. A shift in biorythym to a positive pulse, a good vibration, made up of getting blitzed, having fun, and finding someone special. Love. The first beginnings of euphoric relations. A great feeling.
The usual euphoric initial ecstasy and soon inevitable accompanying misery. Alas, Maximus Fleximus grins and bears the absoloutely ordinary feelings of sadness, jealousy, fear, insecurity, and mutual understanding. What else remains apart from the glue? (Sex)
Not a lot, is what.
Maxx
