Yearning

Gods! I am horny.

How horrible a torment, when one does not have any feminine altars at which to sacrifice the duller moments of his day. How slow the pulse of life when one has no other interest at hand than life itself.

And how cold the bed one sleeps in when one sleeps alone.

O Fate, hear my ardent plea, that I be released from this boredom and given someone at least enough to occupy the bare and dusty space that used to house fantasy. Someone who would remind this man of what a pulse feels like, if for no other reason than to rekindle my creative fires long cold since the absence of a muse.

And if the lack of creation wasn't enough to spur my plea to Cupid, then perhaps some pity will be reserved for desperation's constant attempts to lower my standards. To demand of myself to hold off for better opportunities is to ask of myself to reserve some form of dignity.

How expensive, then, the price of self-worth. How costly the indulgence of pride; and yet, how horrible the thought of quenching one's thirst with cheap wine. Indeed, as though guided by some master brewer, how fast the cheap wine matures the longer one has gone without the drinking of it! Alas, this is a form of vintage guided solely by one's libido, and would blind a man's tongue to the taste of it simply for the satisfaction of drinking. Then, there is the process of waking anew the next day, the lingering smack of the cheap wine still playing over the lips, bought and paid for with the hangover that's lying in the bed next to you.

No, and again I say no. If in tommorow greener grass must grow then for tommorow I will save my libido.