Girl, as you tango

Deep within every mind there is a symphony, its enchanting melodies too often silenced by the futile way we use language. When we subdue beauty in such an eerily cooperative manner, as when Zarathustra thrice forsook his beloved beasts and descended upon ailing humanity from his lofty peaks, it might be best to finally accept that contradictions and ironies govern the economy of our mortal existences. We yearn to be made fools of by forces we scarcely understand, sometimes stretching our ludicrous desires even unto the frontiers of death, embracing that steady ebb of icy lifelessness as if the vessels of our ill conceived passions could sparkle and retain their lustre forever. Eventually the unassuming countenance and parlance of death unfurls our prettiest locks, contorts our sweetest smiles and punctures our smoothest skins with that sickening and unmistakable venom; that invisible mist; that which purloins even the colours from the undying rainbows in our hearts. Be warned then, in all its innocuous charm, death envisions a lonely tango for two to dance. So continue to spew your mundance ironies, when you sashay across the ballroom. Your mind no longer stifles its symphonies, as you tango to your own doom.