This is the storm of Marlon Brando. His voice quieted by the steady howl of wind from his defiant jaw, infecting the moistened disenfranchised throngs of women everywhere.
This is the storm of rebellious youth, in a cocksure swagger, and hands that smell like fine leather. The madness of age screaming itself horse far from the steely eyed beauty of young Marlon.
This is the storm of a generation, living like a ghost screaming through the protruding veins of a strong Marlon. Every man’s envy melting into a warm depth of admiration for the man.
This is the storm of a brooding icon, untouched by decay and the rust of mockery, a hero for the maddened artist, a storm without warning, bellowing thunder with a whisper.