The Lilies Are Bleeding

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My lilies are my most prized possession. Hand picked. I will only take the most supremely beautiful specimens. They must be white as an angel’s wings, and so soft and delicate to the touch that you must be careful of the harm you bring to them. Perhaps it is selfish of me to hoard them as I do. But as it is I who takes them first, it is I who shall enjoy them, their sweet, intoxicating scent and their soothing elegance.

To listen to the lily’s voice is to hear the sound of unrestrained magnificence, fine tuned to stir the soul into a passionate uproar. It is for this reason that I keep my lilies, one dozen at a time, at all times. I must hear the cry of my recherché beauties, bear witness to their bleeding, revel in the need they have for me. At first, even I, pious as I am, questioned this desire, but finding the answer proved such a splendor in its own rite. It is seeing my lilies weakened into such a state that I am all they have left, as they are all I have left, that I derive a satisfaction indescribable to one who has not experienced it themselves. But nothing is perfect forever. One of my lilies has wilted. I must be off immediately to replace her.