Gentle Reader: There is nothing I have discovered in my long existence; that equals the thrill of waking entwined with a cherished lover. From the remove of the Great War’s aftermath, the seismic destruction of aristocratic privilege, had been underway for decades, that morning of my third day, when slender tendrils of light coaxed Louisa and I from Morpheus’ embrace. Later generations scoffed at sentimental trysts; denigrated the great poets, and mocked the sonnets proclaiming undying devotion to the battlefields of love. Though in truth, contrary to the sisters Brontë, real sex involved fluidic leakage in copious amounts. We stank.
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