In the middle of strange passions and dark, dirty thoughts and nothing can keep you out of those. Words and energy that probably should be used for other, more productive purposes. Passions that could go into fulfilling some ambition or reaching toward some goal but it's derailed by thoughts of raw, intimate sensuality. It almost feels like it would be better to cry in your arms than to achieve some supposed goal that has no real value anyway. What really could ever have more value than to bring flesh so close that it goes beyond flesh? What is more purposeful than achieving the kind of intimacy that makes one soft breath between two soft pairs of lips and two melting pairs of eyes? What is more purposeful than touching each other so delicately as to achieve states of mind that disintegrate flesh? What is this use of time that's supposedly better than having you on your knees looking up at me and letting me see the insanity of your need? I don't know the real value of anything on this earth, but I know what I feel and what I remember. One of the only pleasures of getting older. The glory of remembering. Of being able to savor memories. Of being surprised by what remains in the memory. And so much of what remains is you. You in glimpses, smells, smiles, cute moments of loving your pets, powerful moments of letting me see how deep your passions really lie. "All small forgotten things that once meant you" Still flinging words into a void never knowing if they will be read, understood or valued in any way. But you have to permit that paranoia. It's the musical accompaniment to a powerful personality. Always playing softly in the background when it's not being blared by screeching horns. That doubt is sweet and sick and bitter and hateful and absolutely, utterly unbearable, but it is essential.