Memories linger of her formless curves, like thoughts of warm tyres swerving somewhere down endless, unfinished roads. It hurts to be this crass, when I could talk of charm and her caress. But, having said such things as this, lactescent breasts 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.