The love is not in the lust, it is in the betrayed.  Closer than that, Walter.

Or perhaps the lust sees love in her murderer at the very end.  An end is what she loves.

And who are we?  The entertainer?  Should we cast out our eye?  Will the shimmer of ankle take us the road to the cemetery? Straight down the line.

Yet we pace our apartment considering the fruit, behind bars of lighted lattice.  And murder can sometimes smell like honeysuckle.

But one step is the next and the next until three honks and it is done.  And we can hear our steps no more.

What do you want?  In a shadow world what do we want?  Is this our soul?  The journey we have trod?  What do I want?

A love that is Love.  A light that is Light.  A fruit that is Life.

Rating (-5/+5 scale): +2
(that's a 4 star review on Netflix to give you reference)

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