If you were a guitar chord, not one scale formula could desribe your absolute perfection.
Placing it down upon the table, I come to the conclusion that even an hour of silence shared with you is better than a million hours of conversation with anyone imaginable. With each and every graceful word you mutter I am shooken with an unexplainable rush of inspiration filling up my entire existance in space and time through the small of my back.
The harp fits you with extraordinary perfection; I feel an immense surge of beauty as if it were tangable hurricane precipitation at 99 miles per hour rocketing from your aura, not because of the exquisiteness of your performance, but because it is you adjoined with this instrament of great intelligence and artistry. In fact, if all of the precious adjectives of which descibe you were to be in one place at one time, the universe would have to make an infinite amount of more room to only fit half of the total.
You fill my spirit with awe-inspiring tanquility with the delecate strum of each golden string. You are forever luring me towards you as I float forever into the endless gaze of your eyes. The distance between you and me still gorws larger and larger with each step I take. I pray that you exist, I pray that this isn't a game.
Exist with all truthfulness...