CHAPTER FOUR
What hour can it be? I don't know and I even care less. There are no longer any hours. There is no longer the frustrating object of time. Only night exists.
The slow dying embers of the fire and the lamps seem to flash out in their agony distress signals. They dance across the wall which have become somber and gray.
The darkening shadows creep across the sleek body of my Clara...
She appears to be sleeping and maybe dead.
I look at her at every inch. She is lovely. Too lovely to describe. Her pose is like a sketch that could be entitled "The Abandon". Her fight breathing makes her chest rise and fall giving her breasts an added roundedness and appeal. This lethargy is in my hands. She is without defense and I am there with all my motives and thirst. I have not been appeas
