I carve the Summer like a pit and an Apricot where juice runs against my face-- tempted and misty. I want to fall into this music's din like cicadas singing storm clouds in the wind. I hear the tones like Satan's calliope churning burning marks against my heart's wrought Iron. Please make me smile sweet, and catch the rosebuds with my teeth. I've grown so wicked and I find it hard to breathe.