Man is made from hot blood.
Heat wells, blushing with ruddy hue.
Those rose thorns which adorn the mighty host of a crimson bloom.
Inflict those fickle pricks and make its beauty true.
And see to bring forth passion’s fervent flood.
I see some of my peers, or in many cases sub-peers, dating the most butterfaced milquetoast-personality women that the imagination can conjure.
Is this Gen Z phenomenon, or are most people really just that longhoused?