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I think about this every hour of every day of every month by the way

eroticasa2:

“In her sweetness where she folds my wounds there is a flower that bees cannot afford. It is too rich for them and would change their wings into operas and all their honey into the lonesome maps of a nonexistent California county. When she has finished folding all my wounds she puts them away in a dresser where the drawers smell like the ghost of a bicycle. Afterwards I rage at her: demanding that her affections always be constant to my questions.”

Richard Brautigan, “In Her Sweetness Where She Folds My Wounds,” Rommel Drives On Deep into Egypt (Delacorte Press, 1979)