Memories linger of her form, her curves, like the thought of burnt tyres swerving somewhere down endless, dirt-track roads. It hurts to be this crass, when I could talk of her caress, her 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 is prone to tristesse. And this trend tends all the more so after sex.