Too late to talk, too late to not think

I have no ashtray and my cigar is smoldering.

Why on earth can I not rest at the feet of a woman like this ...? Sometimes I think that loving beauty too much is a curse. Yannaras indicated as much in his Person and Eros. Begin: I once loved a goddess, a noetic form morphed into an all-too-mortal frame. Or coil, as Hamlet would say. Chivalric codes once placed Woman on a pedestal, to be worshipped. Now we expect women to be confident, aggressive, even cruel. But what happens when a man cries ... a Roy Orbison-type cry, not a pussy-bitch cry? What then? I think I've spent too many hours at the feet of beautiful women, worshipping them, and not enough time striving to strip off my Herculean shirt. I'm going to end on a lighter note: Madame Recamier probably had a hygiene problem. I wouldn't have wanted to ... well, sure I would. But I'm human, hygienic, and hyper-sensitive. And I've only had six beers today. 24 ouncers!