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Prophylactic measures to protect a heart prone to falling is the key; but, let’s be honest, falling is what we live for.  I don’t care what you say—the catharsis born by reading Notes from Underground, while smoked on heroin in the quiet candle-light, while blanketed by the curved shadows of the girl whose brains were just completely fucked by you, pales in comparison to the free-fall gravity refuting high of “falling in love.”  Mundane things all of the sudden become carnal and profane, and you’re carted back to Jane Austen times when fingers touching inner wrists was considered to be taboo.  Every text message from the object of your sweet affections is like foreplay, titillating to the point where pleasure becomes pain, and long before such missives turn to cheap sexts and unforgivable come-ons, you’re left literally panting for more. 

Therein lies the danger.  By “more,” I don’t mean more heated exchanges or fingertips grazing bare knees, because in such exchanges, what makes it fun is that “less” is “more.”  No, I’m talking about a naked that entails being fully clothed.  Notwithstanding the lurches induced by restrained flirtation, it’s when we bare our fears to the voice on the other end of that cellphone while your digital clock blinks 3:33 a.m. that “more” means “more” and not “less.” I’ve found that when everything becomes quiet but for your dripping faucet and errant traffic, truth becomes irresistible.  He is dope manifest clad in Siren reds—impossible to ignore or turn away.