Wetsuit

I know what the others see, and it is not what I see. Sorry if your shoes are soaked through, but there is a terrible image that can be made alive in dry conditions. So multiple pleasure faucets must run uninterrupted. Even if they bloat my floorboards and ruin my carpeting, I can not turn them off. There are hundreds that would happily bail out my living room with beach pails. Some could lend industrial fans to chase away dampness before mold sets in. Yet no pipe has burst. This is a crisis of management. My liberation is much graver than righty tighty, lefty loosey. The arid picture sucks vitality without replenishing a drop of moisture. Once it sacks value, it makes no return. It spreads cracking the surface of everything that took years to be established. The flooding seems pathological. If you only knew what the dryness threatened, you would tape every spigot open in the unlikely event of my repentance. I am not ignorant to the ravages of excess. Pleasure without end is nauseating. Yet, I would rather you hand me a rubber duck than afford parched aggression a defense attorney. My soul is make sick with splashing. Pruned fingers and whiskers that glitter with droplets have sapped my comfort. Never has a man been prepped for drowning . Still, I would scream though bubbles before I let the dryness string the pearls of my love together and make off like a thief .