So.
After a night of mad trekking, (and mad snarkiness) with an elegant and surprising friend, I took Dawn up to 137 mph across the Bay Bridge at 1:37 in the morning.
What can I say; I like numerology.
And this led me to thinking, as I rode at nearly three times the legal speed limit; there isn't even a reason to care about love, or relationships, or whatnot until I meet someone that can appreciate these moments; those times where the sheer recklessness of your actions transforms them into something absolutely singular, and completely gorgeous.
Baroque Zen.
Satori acheived through complete sensory overload.
An empty silver bridge, lit by chains of fairy lights; a wasplike silver racing bike, screaming through the night like a cousin ready to come; A dark city, ugly and majestic, floating on the edge of the sea.
That moment was the lovechild of PJ Harvey fistfucking Robert Frost.
To bring you my love...
There were no woods, but the night itself was lovely, dark, and deep.
And I made it mine.
But that moment, beautiful as it was, was only a frame to place around a pair of dark, sensuous eyes, and the wickedest smile I've seen in a while...
I was in the mood to see something beautiful; and time was very short.
Hellriding across the bridge through the glow of the sodium lights was an act designed and directed to whet my appetite, to set the tone; every moment of beauty deserves it's own particular type of foreplay; it's own ritual, it's own rites.
But after framing a moment so brutally, so elegantly, the frame inevitably becomes the art. Sometimes fate decides you've drunk too much, and before you know it, you're cut off.
Beauty, like Elvis, had left the building.
Wish you were here.
After a night of mad trekking, (and mad snarkiness) with an elegant and surprising friend, I took Dawn up to 137 mph across the Bay Bridge at 1:37 in the morning.
What can I say; I like numerology.
And this led me to thinking, as I rode at nearly three times the legal speed limit; there isn't even a reason to care about love, or relationships, or whatnot until I meet someone that can appreciate these moments; those times where the sheer recklessness of your actions transforms them into something absolutely singular, and completely gorgeous.
Baroque Zen.
Satori acheived through complete sensory overload.
An empty silver bridge, lit by chains of fairy lights; a wasplike silver racing bike, screaming through the night like a cousin ready to come; A dark city, ugly and majestic, floating on the edge of the sea.
That moment was the lovechild of PJ Harvey fistfucking Robert Frost.
To bring you my love...
There were no woods, but the night itself was lovely, dark, and deep.
And I made it mine.
But that moment, beautiful as it was, was only a frame to place around a pair of dark, sensuous eyes, and the wickedest smile I've seen in a while...
I was in the mood to see something beautiful; and time was very short.
Hellriding across the bridge through the glow of the sodium lights was an act designed and directed to whet my appetite, to set the tone; every moment of beauty deserves it's own particular type of foreplay; it's own ritual, it's own rites.
But after framing a moment so brutally, so elegantly, the frame inevitably becomes the art. Sometimes fate decides you've drunk too much, and before you know it, you're cut off.
Beauty, like Elvis, had left the building.
Wish you were here.