The taste of his last mouthful lies like rust on his tongue. Harsh, and yet his tongue craves more. At rest in the glass, the wine is rusted purple. So there exists an affinity, a strong mutual pull between wine and tongue. They are complementary. They are in love. The silent tongue calls out, and the wine, though inanimate, will heed the call. Well, it's a theory. Lent support when the glass rises and, this time, not stopping short, delivers one lover to the other. They kiss. There's a little death, an insufficient bliss, but repeatable later.
Me and this fat kid
We ran, we ate and read books
And it was the best.
Anything becomes a pleasure if one does it too often.
The Gods gaνe men two gifts to entertain ourselνes before we die, the thrill of fucking a woman who wants to be fucked and the thrill of killing a man who wants to kill you.
... you told me that real pleasure
Don't mean nothing without pain