You Work Hard On A Book And

The Whole Thing's Illusion, [jacob], And There's Nothing Wrong With That. It's What People Want From Us. It's What They Expect.

I Scan The Room. Catherine Is Writing Quickly, Her Light Brown Hair Falling Over Her Face. She Is Left-handed, And Because She Writes In Pencil Her Left Arm Is Silver From Wrist To Elbow.

I Want Her To Melt Into Me, Like Butter On Toast. I Want To Absorb Her And Walk Around For The Rest Of My Days With Her Encased In My Skin. I Want.

Although, Pretending Not To Notice Is Almost Worse Than Noticing.

Sometimes I Think That If I Had To Choose Between An Ear Of Corn Or Making Love To A Woman, I'd Choose The Corn. Not That I Wouldn't Love To Have A Final Roll In The Hay - I Am A Man Yet, And Something Never Die - But The Thought Of Those Sweet Kernels Bursting Between My Teeth Sure Sets My Mouth To Watering. It's Fantasy, I Know That. Neither Will Happen. I Just Like To Weight The Options, As Though I Were Standing In Front Of Solomon: A Final Roll In The Hay Or An Ear Of Corn. What A Wonderful Dilemma. Sometimes I Substitute An Apple For The Corn.