Love

I am in love, brethren.

But, you say, you don't believe in the convention! And no, I do not. Love is a loosely cemented conglomerate of several tasty states of being unless you are formed largely of bauxite and scandium. If you are a pleasing shade of aggressive and light to the touch, then I love you, or at least could were not my heart stolen.

So, with all the rocks (literal rocks, I eat them) eating up most of the displacement of whatever body cavity we love others with, where can this loose conglomerate of affection and commitment and lust among other, larger ideal nouns, this love, where does it live? See, love is a many splendored thing, but it must have some fairly light calcified cementation properties to its conglomeration because it easily is salted into small spaces. That is neither here nor there.

So, let us name what a loved one does for us:

A loved one supports.
A loved one enables.
A loved one obeys, though it gives commands.
A loved one likes to be ridden very, very hard.
A loved one responds to the slightest caress, but does not flip the fuck out when you over-correct.

Could this loved one use as little more rear travel? Maybe, but my affinity for hard-tails has left me cold for the soggy, soft bottoms of some black diamond beauty. Me and my Element, we went out into the wilds of the desert where the single lines of freedom run freer that the wind and we found our bliss. We were unable to capture it, but the pursuit, the following of our Bliss made us two in love.

My search is over.

I love you.

Pictures forthcoming.