Goldish afternoon creeping westward, fell on the bend of your lips. Its tangerine spots landed bashfully there, rustling the shade of your look which suddenly turned warmer. Her brain was a microfilm, portraying every millisecond of pleasing existence in front of her and quietly rescued motile gazes of your mien for later be remembered, only by herself.
Now if I still have to offer you a question,
was it a zsa-zsa-zsu?