Received: from [89.163.249.105] (port=57249 helo=virilmosnter.com) by stodi.digitalkingdom.org with esmtp (Exim 4.87) (envelope-from ) id 1cO5BU-00060t-Fc for lojban@lojban.org; Mon, 02 Jan 2017 08:10:08 -0800 Date: Mon, 02 Jan 2017 09:33:55 -0700 Message-ID: Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Mime-Version: 1 From: "Kim Cooper" Subject: Have the greatest sex-of your life: Enjoy pleasure like never before 5314532 To: Content-Type: text/html; charset=us-ascii X-Spam-Score: 2.9 (++) X-Spam_score: 2.9 X-Spam_score_int: 29 X-Spam_bar: ++ X-Spam-Report: Spam detection software, running on the system "stodi.digitalkingdom.org", has NOT identified this incoming email as spam. The original message has been attached to this so you can view it or label similar future email. If you have any questions, see the administrator of that system for details. Content preview: the multiplicity of this pill They reflect the cold spring sunshine. Coppercolored clouds lie motionless beneath the bridges. The city sees itself in its own water like a woman gazing into a looking glass. Can we not forgive vanity in one so beautiful? And hanging in a thousand homes, paintings mirror back the lives that are lived there. A woman plays the virginal; she catches the eye of the man beside her. A handsome young soldier lifts a glass to his lips; his reflection shines in the silvertopped decanter. A maid gives her mistress a letter . The mirrored moments are stilled, suspended in aspic. For centuries to come people will gaze at these paintings and wonder what is about to happen. That letter, what does it say to the woman who stands at the window, the sunlight streaming onto her face? Is she in love? Will she throw away the letter or will she obey it, waiting until the house is empty and stealing out through the rooms that recede, bathed in shafts of sunshine, at the back of the painting? Who can tell? For her face is serene, her secrets locked into her heart. She stands there, trapped in her frame, poised at a moment of truth. She has yet to make her decision. Sophia stands at a window. She has not seen Cornelis approach. She is standing halfway up the stairs. The windowpanes are tinted glassamber and bloodred. [...] Content analysis details: (2.9 points, 5.0 required) pts rule name description ---- ---------------------- -------------------------------------------------- 0.0 URIBL_BLOCKED ADMINISTRATOR NOTICE: The query to URIBL was blocked. See http://wiki.apache.org/spamassassin/DnsBlocklists#dnsbl-block for more information. [URIs: virilmosnter.com] -0.0 SPF_PASS SPF: sender matches SPF record -0.0 SPF_HELO_PASS SPF: HELO matches SPF record 0.7 MIME_HTML_ONLY BODY: Message only has text/html MIME parts -1.9 BAYES_00 BODY: Bayes spam probability is 0 to 1% [score: 0.0000] 0.0 HTML_MESSAGE BODY: HTML included in message 1.9 RAZOR2_CF_RANGE_E8_51_100 Razor2 gives engine 8 confidence level above 50% [cf: 100] 0.5 RAZOR2_CF_RANGE_51_100 Razor2 gives confidence level above 50% [cf: 100] 0.9 RAZOR2_CHECK Listed in Razor2 (http://razor.sf.net/) 0.8 RDNS_NONE Delivered to internal network by a host with no rDNS 0.0 T_REMOTE_IMAGE Message contains an external image the multiplicity of this pill
They reflect the cold spring sunshine. Coppercolored clouds lie motionless beneath the bridges. The city sees itself in its own water like a woman gazing into a looking glass. Can we not forgive vanity in one so beautiful? And hanging in a thousand homes, paintings mirror back the lives that are lived there. A woman plays the virginal; she catches the eye of the man beside her. A handsome young soldier lifts a glass to his lips; his reflection shines in the silvertopped decanter. A maid gives her mistress a letter . The mirrored moments are stilled, suspended in aspic. For centuries to come people will gaze at these paintings and wonder what is about to happen. That letter, what does it say to the woman who stands at the window, the sunlight streaming onto her face? Is she in love? Will she throw away the letter or will she obey it, waiting until the house is empty and stealing out through the rooms that recede, bathed in shafts of sunshine, at the back of the painting? Who can tell? For her face is serene, her secrets locked into her heart. She stands there, trapped in her frame, poised at a moment of truth. She has yet to make her decision. Sophia stands at a window. She has not seen Cornelis approach. She is standing halfway up the stairs. The windowpanes are tinted glassamber and bloodred.
     
In the center is painted a bird trapped in foliage. She cannot see out. The sun shines through, suffusing her face with color. She stands there, utterly still. Cornelis thinks: she is already a paintinghere, now, before she has been immortalized on canvas. Then he feels an odd sensation. His wife has vanished, her soul sucked away, and just her outward form remains in its cobaltblue dress. My love he says. She jumps, and swings round. Did you not hear the knock at the door? Mr. van Loos is here; he is waiting downstairs. Her hand flies to her hair. Hes here? CORNELIS HAS PLACED a vase of tulips on the table. He has asked for it to be included in the painting, for tulips are a passion of his. I bought these at some expense, he says. They are tulipa clusiana, forced under glass. That is why we can enjoy them at this early season. They were grown by the Portuguese Jew Francisco Gomez da Costa. The white petals are flushed with pink. It is no wonder, is it, that a poet compared them with the faint blush on the cheek of chaste Susannah? He clears his throat. Do they not remind us of the transitory nature of beauty, how that which is lovely must one day die? Perhaps thats why we should grasp it while we can, says the painter. There is a silence. Sophia shifts in her seat. I hardly think you would find that teaching in our Scriptures. Cornelis clears his throat again.
     








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