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We would drink and drug ourselves silly and then fall into either her bed or mine. My heart threw sparks that seriously altered my brain, and I could not speak the name for what it was we were doing. I did not know its name. I still don't.

Her body is as liquid
And as perfect as a wave.
And tender and as vicious
As a bird that I once saved.

The smells and sounds of perfect love, thrashing around in one place or the other all over the globe (right now), totally unable to even say the words that might bring it into focus. No focus is available to these beasts, and that's not really hard to understand, in retrospect.

But if I touch her, she won't feel it.
And what I tell her, she won't hear.
And if she loves me, she'll conceal it.
And she'll cry if I come near.

There's a path for every action in life, and it will always split. No one knows why this is true, (and don't believe the liars), but everyone has seen it. Sex and death. You have about an instant to choose.

It takes patience to walk
And spirit to run.
And nothing to pity yourself,
But it's dangerous fun.

You choose to live, and there's a price every bit as severe as death to pay for that. Everyone walking around around you has experienced some form of the perfect love at one point in their life. They all linger in that memory and try to understand why fire consumes fire and why flames don't just get brighter. Many of them wish they had given in.

Rich harvest of the grape and grain,
I taste my lover's mouth.
She smells of the evening rain
And the breezes from the south.

Thoughts such as this can be terrifying and it's no wonder that men go mad. The strength of a man is that he does not. And this is the point of living; right there in front of you. If you face madness, would she even know you? If you weaken and fall, would she even wait?

But if I face her, she won't know me,
And if I weaken, she won't wait.
And she knows the magic, but she won't show me.
And if love comes, it will come too late.

And, as Jesse Winchester says so well: Even if love comes, it will come too late. There's a simplicity of perfection in a soul who can write a song like this. If you hear it, you will hear a lone guitar and someone in the background snapping fingers and popping palms to keep time. I wish I could shut up and make this much sense.

It takes patience to walk
And spirit to run.
But nothing to pity yourself,
But it's sort of dangerous fun.

CST approved

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