Also, before I bash in my eyeballs for some sleep, I feel that I may soon become quite disaffected with my own growing sense of word fluidity, languid language practice, liberated locution, whatever you call this big bursting desire to write, due to an act that may, in hindsight, be considered a rash display of simplistic honesty.
Here's a little metaphor so I can shield my enfeebled conscience from having to run over the details: it may be quite dismaying to realise your cat has delivered a hairball straight from the oesophagus to the woollen turtle-neck jumper. But the cat certainly felt some relief. Without feeding it too much thought (because I do not like being distracted), I've been building up a bit of a hairball over the last two-ish months regarding love, and I mighta kinda sorta puked it up on someone. Really underneath it's no more than a breath of fresh air, but it's the anticipated reception that might transform such a sweet pure exhalation into cat vomit.
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