ñto love a woman behind closed curtains is like facing the eye of the storm. even knocking would feel like a ponderous cloudburst blown right through one's door. by talking to them, one might even feel like he's ambling on thin course. and that's because loving a woman beneath those wooden planks is no facile traverse. they are the very embodiment of catastrophes, ladies whose walls are made of heartstrings—those with the gnash of bloody carnage and hearts with lesser grace. they are maidens with nothing but themselves, a quaintrelle whose leniency revolves around only those who aspire to have such. and no, they don't hate anyone. they simply have boundaries where when one tries to climb, it would simply come futile.
again, women like them are hurricanes, which one shouldn't think of as a puny spring. they are cataclysms veiled in frivolous garments, whereas their glances are their fortress. they are heavy rains in the dead of night whose feats are sly, but lethal. and with a smile as beau as after the rain, one may collapse to smithereens. as they were named after typhoons, maybe they bring ruins. and with their deceitful reveries, one may be conned into being careless. one may not heed to how a woman like them disguises herself, and one might climb over the door without knowing the entrapment—something she had created because she believes that nobody should cross the fortress she had built.
