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I love you, little fuzzywuzzy. Love you little mickleshwickles. Miss the more intimate relations we once had, intimately. I clutch the missing of those intimacies intimately.
Why do I do this to myself?
Is this the equivalent of shouting down into a deep well when you are drunk and have wandered off on a dark country road after carousing for many hours and losing total track of time... finding yourself in front of this long dark hole that makes you fearful to lean into it? Well, I have and I tossed a few coins with my voice and they bounced back up at me like glitter in sunlight.
