Marietta, the sun to my moon, the flower...

Marietta, the sun to my moon, the flower to my bee, whose voice is all the music in the world, whose body is the secret to be savored, whose touch cures all ills in my tortured heart, whose eyes flash with laughter and light, whose feet are delicate and delectable, whose knees point me onward towards the sweet nectar just beyond your perfect thighs, whose very elbows are throbbing with desire...Too much! Why must I always be too much! She is a practical woman, after all. Try again.

So Marietta. My dear. My sweet. My love. When can we be away? I’ve sold my farm and my house in town, and with the money I received we can start all over, perhaps on the coast of Sardinia, or Sicily.

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