19 August 2007
..on the ruby lust..
She clutched her third coffee with the red palms of her hand, letting the blackness and the fiery heat gradually crawl through her pores. For the tenth time that day, for the fortieth time that week, she had attempted to kill the lust her hands were suffering from. Whatever she looked at, it was there, lingering like a slashed chain of pearls.
The heat, like time, like the reality-checks, like the obvious defaults, like alcohol, like confrontation, like the several risks she took, only slightly lightened her hunger, for it still stretched its thorny neck like a ruby monster beneath every pillow, whining, moaning, growling.
Gambling is, with very little doubt, a scorching hell. It pulled her, nonetheless, forcefully, helplessly, guiltily, deliciously, defeated, towards the swamp of sins.. And she would’ve liked to believe it was against her will, but no one would have possibly agreed..