Venus in August

He writes to her, “I now have a head full of erotically charged images and thoughts.” In the exactly seven years that she has known Jerome, she has not once pictured him swept up in a sexual revelry in which she presides over; she has been many things to him, but never the goddess of love. What has changed? Is it life itself, relentlessly advancing its mission, until, one day, frayed and ground to a pulp, some of our soft inner fluid spills out and coagulates in the August sun?

Art is ephemeral; so add to the pot...

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