I like you... again. There. You win. You can do your victory dance or slaughter a goat, or whatever it is you do when you're happy.
The joy which we inspire has this charming property, that, far from growing meagre, like all reflections, it returns to us more radiant than ever.
I mean, what could ever be better than sex?
For sure, even the worst blow job is better than, say, sniffing the best rose... watching the greatest sunset. Hearing children laugh.
I think that I shall never see a poem as lovely as a hot-gushing, butt-cramping, guthosing orgasm.
Painting a picture, composing an opera, that's just something you do until you find the next willing piece of ass.