Reclamation of the Relics

I feel I owe you all an explanation. It's not that I don't care.

Every so often for the last few months I have written about liquid feminine perfection. I have breathlessly and talentlessly gushed about a woman. I am sure you are tired of hearing about her. I know my friends are. At least I assume so.

She was here. And there. In the vermillon red moderately high energy fluvial deposits of Onion Creek and Castle Canyon. And I have nothing. She went back home and I am beer drunk and whiskey high. See this: there are big thoughts and heavy words strewn about in my cluttered head.

We went to see Nina Storey, the sort of woman I would find myself powerlessly attracted to in a normal state of affairs, but I found myself distracted. Turned away. She tore the songs up and proved she deserves to be making money at being awesome, but I was only semi hearing her. I was distracted by candle light and brown eyes. Not really brown. More of sphalerite. Not the clear stuff. The rich and earth of virgin soil mineral full of zinc and (astounding) crystalline (perfect) beatific (indescribable) beauty.

My sister, whom I would hastily die for, got married this weekend. Her moment as a princess reclaimed seems such a minor footnote to the amazing central plot of the weekend which was a body in a blue dress and a neck wearing jewelry crafted by thin perfect hands.
I feel so fortunate. I have ignored you all. Sorry.

Not really.