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The sky was grey and steel blue, and the air was heavy-laden with moisture; the tangled dance of branches in trees; and it both thrilled and terrified that the darkening gods were preparing to open up and consume.

There is anger and unrest today. 

The heavens seek to wash clean of the Earth all the ill and vicious behavior of the populace. We take cover, lingering in bed clothes, behind heaters and mugs of coffee, staring out at the gail-soaked sky, the impatient leaves whipping to and fro like wisps of hair around the vixen face of the siren, a beauty who seeks to destroy.

There is danger in the air today.

Feminine naked form stands erect; feral, fertile before me. Breasts and bush virginally ripe and seductive yet solidly at odds with desire. They will not be taken. The length of chestnut-bronzed hair extends from root to thigh, straight and sensual. This form: a symbol of want and the forbidden.

And the storm outside is the same, existing in a time and place otherworldly and not of day or night, pocketed in an immense void of solitude. The storm reminds us of ourselves, reflecting on the sense of always stirring impatiently underneath the surface.

There is the exuming of uneasy feelings today.

Now and again only so often do we stir up our own emotions, like leaves in the storm, venturing, daring, to feel a little of what simmers beneath, the unrest that resides there, aching for a riot, throbbing for our own torrential downpour, yearning for that we were the storm.

- C.R. Cohen

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