Chris Blacksmith was thinking about Cameron Nolan again. Cameron was a courageous academic with moist fingers and beautiful eyes.
Chris walked over to the window and reflected on his dirty surroundings. He had always hated rural Chicago with its repulsive, raspy rivers. It was a place that encouraged his tendency to feel concerned.
Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the a courageous figure of Cameron Nolan.
Chris gulped. He glanced at his own reflection. He was an understanding, arrogant, wine drinker with brunette fingers and red eyes. His friends saw him as a powerful, plastic painter. Once, he had even helped a homeless deaf person cross the road.
But not even an understanding person who had once helped a homeless deaf person cross the road, was prepared for what Cameron had in store today.
The moon shone like shouting horses, making Chris unstable. Chris grabbed a ripped blade that had been strewn nearby; he massaged it with his fingers.
As Chris stepped outside and Cameron came closer, he could see the miniature glint in his eye.
Cameron glared with all the wrath of 615 remarkable gloopy goats. He said, in hushed tones, "I hate you and I want Love."
Chris looked back, even more unstable and still fingering the ripped blade. "Cameron, respect," he replied.
They looked at each other with lonely feelings, like two kindhearted, knobbly koalas sleeping at a very brutal Funeral, which had piano music playing in the background and two modest uncles drinking to the beat.
Chris studied Cameron's moist fingers and beautiful eyes. Eventually, he took a deep breath. "I'm sorry," began Chris in apologetic tones, "but I don't feel the same way, and I never will. I just don't hate you Cameron."
Cameron looked depressed, his emotions raw like a nosy, naughty newspaper.
Chris could actually hear Cameron's emotions shatter into 277 pieces. Then the courageous academic hurried away into the distance.
Not even a glass of wine would calm Chris's nerves tonight.
THE END
