I wish your words could linger, not fade. The delight that accompanies them dissipates all too quickly. There simply must be some way to capture that sublime thrill, that indecisive moment between fear and ecstasy. Are they tidings of good or ill?
So many scars – both “fresh” and long healed – bruises, nobbles, gnarls and abrasions litter my body that I hardly remember which have been inflicted by successive generations of “her” and which have not. I used to – remember – but they are memories long lost to the chilled glass shoved into my paw by my best mate at half-past one on a Sunday morning; too many Sunday mornings come to think of it. Yet I am willing to put myself through it again, for your sake. Whatever brief happiness I can salvage and meld together for you is yours: a gift.
So many scars – both “fresh” and long healed – bruises, nobbles, gnarls and abrasions litter my body that I hardly remember which have been inflicted by successive generations of “her” and which have not. I used to – remember – but they are memories long lost to the chilled glass shoved into my paw by my best mate at half-past one on a Sunday morning; too many Sunday mornings come to think of it. Yet I am willing to put myself through it again, for your sake. Whatever brief happiness I can salvage and meld together for you is yours: a gift.
