Angel Rosa Quotes

Merrill Hartweiss scales a rocky incline toward Renna. The noon sun bakes the hillside as Merrill's boots dig into the broiling sands. Yet another gypsy tune enters his head. It starts off slowly. A lone guitar, its strings strummed with the lustful passion of a young man brushing his fingertips softly against the breasts of his lover. Another guitar joins, like a second hand, exploring her hot flesh, stroking the side of her bare abdomen, and gradually moving upward toward her chest. Then, a female voice joins the guitars; it is slightly raspy, yet sultry; filled with a fiery allure. The guitars pick up in intensity and tempo. There is a rhythmic clapping now, in synchronization with the strumming. The man has entered his lover.

Sweat begins to form on Merrill's forehead, then quickly turns to vapor, dissipating into the blistering heat from the sunlight reflecting off the sands. Steady clapping, louder still. The tempo quickens, progressively and with a vigorous intensity. The man arches his back, cresting then falling; cresting, arching, rising and falling deeper again and again into his lover. The clapping, now faster, still rhythmic, but so much more intense. The guitars keep pace with increasing ferocity. In the woman's voice, short, quick breaths form words as she cries out her lover's name from deep within the throes of a forbidden love

Normally, the mortal would be emptied of his soul. His truest essence, which, if the bastard was lucky, would be released to be recycled by the cosmos. The 'investor' would then take hold, snuggling in tightly to his host body. At first it's kind of like when you purchase a new pair of shoes. How the hard leather around the opening digs into the flesh it surrounds. Then, after a short period of breaking them in, it begins to only feel uncomfortable when you move a certain way. Soon enough though, you forget that you even have them on. They eventually seem to fit as if you've always worn them. The truly unlucky, though, they are left inside. Paralyzed and powerless to do anything but watch their lives be lived by someone… something, else.

I couldn't begin to tell you what terrible trigger for such insanity lies deep in my sub-conscious. Though no doubt some would say that, indeed, it may be some demon of conscience. A deeply buried guilt for some unforgivable depravity. Then again, perhaps not.