A Season in Habenero

The fire consuming the decadent has recently resurged, blazing high
through the wading pools of bile. Empowering rage is a blinding crutch,
intoxicating my weak soul with all the forceful alacrity of the
Habenero. The candles grow weary of their flicking and will soon
spatter into a smoky oblivion. The joviality ushered in by nymphs have
long since departed from these bare shelves. Shredded, rotten cabbage
appears all to be within my lonely grasp. Sodom does not stand in
smouldering embers--but Eden, and she has never learned exactly how to
hum that particular tune, 'tis doubtful if it was ever attempted.