Memories linger of her form and curves, like thoughts of burnt tyres swerving somewhere down endless, dirt-track roads. It hurts to be this crass, when I could talk of her caress and charm. But, nonetheless, the female breast and similar sorts of suchlike flesh have always beckoned the lustless, the world- worn, the warrior-king. The dauphin, too. Other things perhaps best left unsaid. Every creature tends to tristesse. And this turns all the truer after sex.