Let a son come forth from your loins fashioned by God; first a sphere for his head; let his hair remind one of fresh-cut straw. Let his eyebrows resemble caterpillars lightly treading his brow and a ghostly-pale path separate their twin arches. Let his nose be straight, of moderate length, a button for perfection, with a smear of freckles across it and under his eyes. Let his eyes, those watch-fires of his brow be cool with grey-light, or the steely calm of the barrel of a gun. Let his countenance emulate joy: not innocence nor yet bliss but at once both. Let his mouth be bright, small in shape--as it were, a half-circle. Let his lips be thin like worms, yet eager to reveal a snowy, toothy smile. Rounded like cobble let the Designer fashion his chin. Let his neck be a small column supporting the inchoate mind inside the head expressing boyish charm. Let his shoulders foreshadow the man to be, perfectly propor...
A humble blog of tragic proportions