But for the bitchmeat the Roland was my own. How I will flay her bone from flesh from bone Oh! For the piercing! How I long for that one - I long to tear the petals, long to string the pomegranate and grapes of her sex onto the long blades of emerald grass, sweet beneath an evening summer sky, as I ply her gilded juices into the sky... the evening sky....

How Dare She! Bitchmeat! The saviour is mine! He, the Roland is for me!
AND ME ALONE!

I have timbres which she could only dream...

I am Widowmaker called Durendal called nail what colors could she offer that are not already given his grip, his caress...?

I am his arc, his breath, SHE CANNOT HAVE HIM.

I shall give her hair to the crows and bathe myself in the tallow from her fat yellow thighs.

What
is
the
color
of
your
fear
?