This place I call home is paradise city, muse of impressionists, and darling of honeymooners. I know now the irrelevance of Heaven.
For as much as I long for my every breath to cease, I yearn not to return to this heaven.
A mirror of lake is disturbed by the swan that lets out a fart in A minor. Tchaikovsky giggles in his grave.
Histamines battle to capture my breath. If only wars were so easy.