Have you wondered

if you'd take my in your arms and tell me that the charms that flow from your milk-shake hair will envelop us in a mueslin cloth floating free from time? I often think of half-felt impulses, words caught by the web of propriety in my throat -- words stumbling with the lub-dub of my beating heart but becoming formless in the noise of consciousness. Thickly, there is no heart that would bear this. You paddy foot around with strange ideas -- rejecting sanity like the distant barking of dogs or the rattling exhaust pipes ill-fitted on ramshackled lorries.

You looked at the fillets of sting-ray waiting to be barbarqued and wondered about the oozey slime that gives their skin a sheen and makes chomping pleasurable. Cartiledge and bone confused and compressed in my chomping jaws.