Before me my canvas stands naked, beautiful in this moment of possibility awaiting my brush. Worked and reworked by life she is a Picasso of emotion. Animated, disjointed, colors splashed across the cloth by the various artists who have tried to capture her essence. I draw my inspiration from the swell of her breasts, the curve of her thighs, her long dark lovely hair and full lips which will soon quiver under my hand. Goose bumps form on her body from the slight chill and anticipation of my touch. Her nipples harden in the cool air as my fingers find them. The contact was sudden, unexpected and she shies from it trying to pull back but the ropes are tight. I had promised her punishment and her blindfolded body was steeled for pain. The sensation is pleasant and she relaxes under my hand. Trailing my fingertips along her curves she writhes as I find the most ticklish places. It brings a smile to torture her in this sweet way and I run them from thighs to underarms relishing her peals of laughter. Yet another color on my palate is such a tone. I continue with light strokes of the brush caressing here and there allowing her the pleasure of being bound, helpless at the mercy of my lighter imagination. Not a move wasted nor a corner of my canvas gone untouched. Her hair, soft and heavy in my hand used to extort gasps when pulled or her private womanly charms manipulated to bring forth moans. Her lips and mouth tasted and teased are touched by tongue, gently bitten and sucked until soft and pouty. They produce a swollen pink glow against her porcelain complexion. With every stroke comes a new and vibrant hue that brings her to life. My work intoxicates me and I am consumed by her beauty. Yet, the eye of the artist discerns the need for a darker, richer color. Slapping her cheek hard then raking my short nails up her sides soon cause lines of a pale reddish hue that add to the creamy shade of her skin. Her breath caught fast between her teeth is a symphony in my ears. Her senses have awakened anew and the strokes of my brush have become more intense, measured, extracting the deeper emotion hidden beneath the layers of her daily life. Her tears provide the release she desperately needs. Surrendering to the waves between pleasure and pain she rides the crests until the last one is spent upon her shore. She collapses into my arms to be loved and comforted balance being once again restored.?

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• ?I've plagiarized the following passage from a book by Robert Olen Butler titled "Severance."? It describes how fleeting and beautiful?life can be and how it can be remembered?... immediately after the sword has been swung. Macabre I know but still beautiful in the telling.

?Blossoms floating on the Perfume River plumeria mango and lychee the water itself smelling of mountain flowers even after the blossoms have eddied away I drag my hand in the river my father pulling at the oar he says my name sharply Ky I take up my own oar again and now we loll in the sun beside the South China Sea my father sleeping my mother huddled against my sister speaking low I wander away back toward the river far along the edge of the lagoon and even though there is no one in sight my heart is already beating furiously the jungle closes in and around a bend she is crouched by the river?s edge I cut toward the tree line before she knows to look up I circle and creep close her back is to me she must be a peasant girl her skin is dark and her shirt clings to her as her naked back shines through thin wet cloth she angles her head and pours the river into her long midnight hair once and again she has stolen my breath as she sits back and shakes her wet hair I watch never seeing her face as she rises and goes away forever and I understand though the blossoms pass along in the current and vanish the river still smells sweet.