I ran around you and climbed you  like a mountain.  I threw my arms about  and flailed  like a child, sucking the sweets, sucking the taffy  and lapping the milk, the white skin of your body. Your breasts  were cups of new warm breaths, firm and hard, your body trembled like a landscape. Oh, blonde thing, meek, and  tranquil, you grew bashful  when I called you, Darling. Your cheeks  turned red  and blushed with fever, my...

Even the bruised-fruit in the bowl  wants to jump out of its skin, and the kitchen wishes it was an outdoor patio, and the rug is tired of getting stepped on,  and the building sometimes wishes it was never built.  And even God denies his own existence;  feeling useless in all that heaven  with nothing at all to do  but keep an awful eye on His world,  which wishes so much that it wasn't.