As I watched the sky morph shades of amber and amethyst, of fiery orange and smoldering pink, I always wondered if colors and images like these once inspired the greats before us to construct their beauty and masterpieces.

— Hubert Martin

Every decision, every single one, comes with a price to pay. It means you chose one thing over another, always. Whether you chose right or wrong, that cost remains constant. It's a permanent life tax. That's where taxes come from.

— Hubert Martin

Everyone is their own, though they are so alone. They all sit on their imagined thrones, made only of their own bones. Ego and pride make exquisite delusional cushions.

— Hubert Martin

He accepted new ideas as readily as new trends. Knowing those worth it would last and the lesser will pass.

— Hubert Martin

He gave up. No hint of ember behind his eyes nor life in his breath. He snipped the last, overstretched strand of hope, and nicked the strand of life by mistake. He did it with his hands.

— Hubert Martin

Her words were slickly lacquered, dripping with venom that singed the air as they fell. She traced her tongue up my neck and whispered in a way that would shatter glass. "It's the words in between," she said, "those are the ones I truly mean." Then, her toes curled with the release of the truth she kept hidden.

— Hubert Martin

He sang softly, less with words and more with thought. She cradled his head, stitching together his fragmented heart.

— Hubert Martin

He spoke in polished honesty free of liar's filth. He said the hardest words with an unshakable voice, a wide smile, with fear and doubt freezing over his core. The truth was the best route, but the truth could always be costly... another truth. A sad truth.

— Hubert Martin

He was a musician of the best nature, with guitar string fingertips and soft flute lips that could tighten in a trumpet's purse. Every movement was perfect, every breath filled with purpose. Whether close or open, his eyes seeped ambition and his body burned with chaotic passion. I was his instrument and he played me so well. His fingers fashioned a tune of ecstasy while his lips felt the reed shudders of my skin. He stole my breath and made it his own, using my lips to create his climactic song. A symphony of electricity and orgasmic bliss, he played me so well his fingers never did miss. Half-circles and hooks with my parted lips as his speaker, I never knew another musician so ruthlessly eager. To finish his song, to hit every note, elongating the melody of every sound from the depths of my throat. He was ambitious, pushing my limits, tearing my reservations and destroying my thresholds, all I could do was phase in and out, my ears ringing from the ballad I was made to produce.

— Hubert Martin

His eyes are covered by impermeable marble, a solidity that can never be breached. You think there is gold and warmth behind the facade of cold, but if only you could see your reflection in the marble. You would see how you burn, how brightly you glow, enough to incinerate anyone else whole.

— Hubert Martin