Sage. Sexy Sage. Like naked laps in a swimming pool and full glasses of Bordeaux.
Sage. Potent Sage. Like cups of over seeped tea and hard relentless sex.
Sage. Powerful Sage. Like pounding waves and a confessional gritty memoir.
Sage. Hardcore Sage. Like a ruthless painful truth and overpowering florissant lights.
Sage. Sparkling Sage. Like pink champagne from Lalique glasses or fireworks over the ocean on a moonless night. Sage. Mysterious Sage. Like where the fountain of youth flows or who killed JFK.
Sage. Beautiful Sage. Like Venus after a rumble in the clouds or wind uncovering buried treasures.
Sage. Giant Sage. Like surprises in small packages and Pax on a forest walk.
Sage of words and wisdom and mixtures of spices.
Sage of templates and strokes and freedom of trenches. Sage of curves and spears and arrows that volt.
Needing Sage. Wanting Sage. Craving Sage for my own.
Spitting candles. Lighting canvases. Tuning pitchforks for Sage.
Spinning paint. Closing attics. Compiling anthills for Sage.
Longing. Crafting. Compelled for Sage.
Weeping. Regurgitating. Puking for Sage.
Sage. The revealing. The sexy. The potent powerful hardcore sparkling mysterious beautiful giant perceptive words and intuitive wisdom Sage.