Something Present. Nothing Present.

She's a bitter Lover. Always leaving her Man regretfully filled with fire without warmth the next morning. A brief glimpse of ecstasy that slowly fades like cigarette smoke hanging in a packed and parked car. Revisited every evening that Her name comes up. The days are past where foreplay is more than a forethought, immediately letting her fall into the depths. Winter threatens those with souls remaining with a vast empty fear of abduction. Desperate times call for desperate measures and cold times call for inner warmth. That bitter sweet Siren may help you too bed and accompany you there too, but she'll never let you leave it. This consumption is starting to get loose, a forrest fire started by a drunken youth not foreseeing the eventual consequences of his present actions.