Between longest hour (and sand quick day), torpor sets in the tongue. And this quickening lassitude- dries even up the wettest lust to an unkempt,unchaste crust, of lapse and indifference- of long past passion(behind a hope), of original lick of flat,tan stomachs. Intrigue lose in a ran-out inkwell, dim blots of flushed eruptions. The first fondle of new,moist,electric swell- has turned to a strenuous recollection.