She cut her hair last night. We had sex in the morning. I am still drunk. We love each other more than ourselves. She put on black nail polish. 39 degrees today. I sweat. The dirt sweats. Cats are lying dead and scattered on the cooler floor tiles of the kitchen. Fans are stirring the heat. She is working on her art. Pulling over medical one-use gloves. Watching her conducting her physical perception and mindfulness of being excites me and gives me epically wood, always. Feeling myself makes me puke. Another Sunday under a beheaded palm tree.