Nudity is the epitomical mask of humanity, burgeoning with all the wisdom and serenity of the Illuminated Manuscripts whom spoke of diligence, contrition. The writing's inept phraseology rooted in every swirl of the scribe's fortuitous droning, an inken ballet played out for days upon years in the musty niche of his cell, with caricatures of human misery that look oddly of forgotten tears and remembered smiles, as though the everyman sucked joy from every day. That is the testament of denuded facades embayed within the epidermis, where the truest lies of humanity fettered by features and then imprisoned by thin cotton's temptations. All that is artificially fallacious quivers in shades cast from the heights of the intrinsically fallacious, for as sure as beauty is only skin deep evil is only heartbound.

I, the sensuously unsalacious, perhaps have a more facile endeavor before me in carving open the seedy fleshes with querisome eyes and viewing what was masked, if that is indeed even to be endeavored, but those who are possessed of libido it seems only serve to present the truism administrating every falsity; that of the masque and its stern accordance with all that is human. Through the intrinsic ideals of contentment and pleasure we infer that lies are hardly warranting of the connotative negativism pervasive to them in the majority of instances. A lie is a terpsichore caught on a high wind and sent spiraling off, to give us the glint of sequined habiliments through the breaks in clouds, and the shrouding of the sun. To speak of lies as antithetically aligned with the heart and soul is to speak in consonance with societal terms, not human, not humane, not humanitarian terms.

And, furthermore, though I used it in turn to exemplify falsehoods, nudity is a single-stepped proof of this maxim. The mere fact that the propagation of mankind is dependent upon the enticement of a lying figure is substantial, I should say, to carry forth the grand purity of lies. When the layers are decorticated away from the most beauteous of lies, and we partake in the wondrous purveyor of portioned flesh found in the opposite sex, then we wish for nothing short of an absolute abolishment of truth and to be consumed in the lie itself. With nature providing so wonderful a distraction from the, occasionally dull, vagaries of 'personality' man and woman alike cannot help but be thankful, as the only breed of reconciliation between the collective male and female is in lies and distractions of self.

The sanctity of falsehoods is to be felt when I brush the lie with my charged tips of magnetism, drawing forth every hair on an alien craft sent forth with the ultimate truths of fallaciousness in tow; slipped into every pore so that I may craft hours long enough to draw them forth in her pleasures, once again. And when you lie with the sweated truths of lies running gravitationally to the sheets along your knotted limbs, you have found reconciliation of soul, and, what's more, you have managed the conjoinment of your meager self with the absolution of another fleetingly perfect being. The union of natural dualities.

It is almost a thing of sorrow to be only an observer in the spectacle of completion and mendacity. Excluded, though I may be, I still can sense the truth every female is meant to give, even though when she tries to do so she finds I already possess it, and she has nothing more than her soul left to give me. But what is the soul next to truth? What is the good of truth when it is no longer concealed in a lie?
Questions for the owl to hum along with, in the tedium of the small hours, no doubt.
Questions I have the answers to, perhaps, but, all the same, answers it does not please me to speak of, and if a thing is not pleasing it's then perversely inhumane.

Of nudity and the wisdom of self we can truly observe the simple joys of a juxtapositioned antithesis, if you'll follow me to a day of finding frontiers far from the final ones, though frontiers whose exploration is similarly far from commonality. A day in nudity is a day in the limelight of the heart, of the earth, and, most importantly, the hyacinth bloomed upon my windowsill. The scratch of carpet, the sultry sun, the varnished oak's strokes, it is the very definition of sublimation of the balustraded divider standing between mind and nature. When one is alone the lie of the flesh is at once irrelevant, and the lies of the sense begin to speak truth. For the multitudes of sense blockaded from existence when partaking in the frail camaraderies all rush back to you in a time of peaceable solitary self-confinement, and the world no longer whispers through a breeze, it can boom through the auricular canals of bones and blood, speak through the incised flesh, climb into the cracked marrow and infect all the lively waters that disperse from your pallid cores.
Nature is too subtle to scream at you in a mere array of 5 senses, you must find your ways of going about attaining the others out there, peeling back the 4th and 5th eyelids from your cheekbones, and forgetting the folly of a sixth sense in favor of the 17th.
When one is bare one is alerted, exultantly so, to all that polyester shields our awareness from, and if I ever come to rule the world, I shall make it mandatory for each human being to spend, at the very least, one session of a continually nude 24 hours.
It would still our wars for a day, and open the minds for a moment, but what moments I could give you all.