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💉So wake up sleepy one
It's time to save your world💉
--- *** --- --- Later that Day ---
"She wore blue velvet, bluer than velvet was the night, softer than satin was the light from the stars," Blue Velvet by Bobby Vinton recently played on the radio while you were widely awake in the very wee hours of midnight, honing up your ears to dedicatedly room the honey-mouthed vocalist's vindictively tempting voice accenting the very lyrics.
Stinging shut your eyelids to constrict its fleshily facial muscles to rest and solemnly dedicating its serene hour of eavesdropping the vintage songs from the last two years when nobody around you could contagiously reckless hex you with a headache or glassy tiredness was possibly the most refreshing therapy for insomnia and loneliness. The genuine sentiment of the divinely yearned tranquility pierced the very kitchen. The feather-soft horripilation perkily rabid cropped your delicate epidermis even underneath your fresh pair of pyiamas you have dared to wear twice after the apocalyptically vengeful, bloodthirstily elating nemesis of your former manager, Cole Derek Lowe.
Ethereally timeless dynamic roller coaster of hours passing at summer breeze's pace gauged the dozens of meaningfully authentic, fiercely passionate discussions you and the British compatriot shared. The authentically meaningful gathers on the kitchen table even when the British compatriot didn't dare to graze a tiny bite from your freshly prepared meals except for the dozens glasses of water hydrating his organs and delightfully fleet satiating his appetite.
Even if the hot topic on the media like newspapers, radios and television's breaking news exceedingly monotonous was being objected to cease from its regular appearance, yet the authorities' oblivion to your bare hands whose pristinely delicate fingers crooked around a kitchen knife to banish the pearly precious life out of Cole Derek clouded them. They weren't aware of your persona. It was illegal to get rid off of somebody in the possibly bloodiest, the most sadistic way. You didn't have any other choice than banishing the life out of the drug cook with series of repetitively blood-curdling, villaniously potent stabs to plummet down his survival's chances. The last heart pulses to violently excited thud into his torso. The last breathing coursing through his nose. The final seconds and moments of his very life before his heart halted its frequently eager function to gear up his frail skeleton and muscles to contract and twitch even motioning. The final countdown, itself. The final destination of his ethereally sable, coated in eternal unnerve soul to aimlessly wander the expansive world.
Yet the neighbours haven't even questioned the godforsaken corpse inside the abandoned brothel. Little did they know who was staying behind the bloody knife and the dead body. The ideal match of the demise. Such a compatible and down-to-earth pairing. It resembled a blood-curdligly complacent landscape for the demons to cast in the darkest corners of the sites and surreptitiously imbibing with their bloodthirsty, villaniously eagle vermillion gemstones the relentlessly discrete, graphically explicit details illustrating the absolute reality's atrocity. Nobody still questioned between you and Timothy. Your home was the genuine sentiment of celestial tranquility and safety the most. You and the possessed priest played your own cards right. Just how it supposed to be.
