Without the accolades.
The global admiration.
Or the reverent regard, of prince and pauper alike.
Without the homes.
The exotic carriages.
The wind swept villas, situated high above ocean cliffs,
Or the English Baroque castles, to which his name was betrothed.
Without the caviar.
The masterpiece canvasses.
The marble antiquities.
Or the 500 year-old bottles of wine.
Without the gems.
The vestiges of gold.
Or the Bvlgari trinkets.
And without the warmth of sunlight.
She would love him still.
For he would still be Max Mulberry.
Implode. Part LXXXI – DK