Love is not a reliable emotion

Love is not a reliable emotion-

It soars  it falls out of the sky

it crashes and buries

first time lovers and

mature ones alike.


The morn greeted dull and grey

she opened the window wide

to let-in damp air

spreading all over my heated


My dreams: rivers of sweat and



She took off early
I had time for myself.

As I ate breaky she phoned:

don’t eat too much

meet me at ‘Stadtboden’

she’d chose as her haunt.


Dimmed dusky atmosphere

low level natural light

great views thru’ shop windows

palm trees growing in Vienna’s

Kruger street.

Behind them I imagine the sea

B says.


Our seat in the far left corner

we order coffee

Americano salad with prawns

then more coffee

as you’ll get a cold pint of water

with every coffee from our

Macedonian waitress.


Afternoon’s time vanishes

quickly with slavish duties.

Nica ’s tired out running errands

For Mr T whereby it’s an obligatory

walk for me

to fetch his usual ice cream.

The young Serbian lady smiles

about Mr T’s standing order.

She’s familiar with the

three-flavour-cup wrapped-up

without a flat edible top.


At Mrs IRA’s flat Mr T makes

a scene of paying me for the

day’s work plus expenses.

I’LL apply for it tomorrow

with Mrs IRA. A business woman

with a sensible soul.


On this note my poem

in this green journal ends.

I’ve learned from great men:

etaH get’s you nowhere

but evoL does!




Achilles’ Heel

By ZJ Galos

I am plagued by my ghosts of this world in my imagination. Should I not be rather pleased by them? After all that is a pinnacle, a writer’s life can depend upon most of the time. At least if his genre is fiction. Fiction is like mythology that was once a religion. It is based upon facts that are clothed into metaphorical garb to render the prose adhering to rules of personal aesthetic qualities. Fiction can be based on truth, one’s own unique experiences, and representations of near facts. Often there is such a row of coincidences of facts that shroud around the character of a person we do care about and love that we doubt about their incidental character, and the mind seeks logical explanations that it cannot find. That’s when my vivid imagination sets-in to complete the missing mosaics in the picture, I have formed around a person I have met and known just fleetingly.
I have to think about her and the words of a past friend still sound in my ears: Trust me. I always had to believe her almost stubbornly, as I had difficulties trusting a woman. But AyAy kept repeating these two words to me continually, as if she sensed my doubts, as I had subsequently explained to her my reason. Perhaps she repeated these words of trust, in lieu of explanations; she just gave me some clues, even if I did ask for more. This scene had been repeated a few times and I watched her. She was then smiling, with her dark eyes glowing mysteriously, watching my facial expression that gave her signs of my emotions…
Now as I sit-up in bed, waking from a restful sleep, I return back at an instant, subconsciously, to the thoughts I had before falling asleep. What is it? It’s about Simi.
Simi, the mysterious woman who strikes me, as if she is playing with this image of an Angel of death, explaining it to me, due to her record of incidents that happen around her. Wherever she appears or leaves, something happens that we subscribe to a nature’s catastrophic event, but looking closer it might be something different. It is rather stirring. It is immediate, as if someone was planning these incidents to happen. Does Simi has ESP or a deeper sense of knowing, when and where to travel, choosing routes that coincide with acts of terror or similar happenings? Would Simi have an unusual deeper sense, or is she directed by some superior power that has invested in her the act of a kiss of death, for places and areas, which she has just left behind her? It makes my flesh crawl, as I envisage her cool stature and her large eyes that send rays of flames to throw upon land, people and machines, to burst them into smithereens or incinerate them to ashes. A truly Woman-wonder-beam as she visits places marked by ill fate, chosen by whatever law of the universe.
Of course there is Eros and Thanatos, love and death, who live as eternal twins in a love-hate relationship together. And now what is next? I am already anticipating the next act, which I should not. But would you not wonder?
Love, beauty, connotation to all glorious and beautiful women: Venus de Milo, Aphrodite of Knidos, sculpted by the gods and their genial extension into human sculptors, who saw through their god-like eyes the beauty in body and mind. He is working with a living model, whose half-clad body casts a shadow with the outlines of death into the sand of this life’s arena, of a bright and blending sun, where the eyes are hurt by fine grains of dust and irritated by the salt that crystallizes from the sweat out of the pores of their heated skins. Her images of Eros become fuzzed and faded. The more we try to wipe our eyes and enjoy the voyeurism we are excited about to see the final piece of cloth sliding from her thighs, the more they burn in this excitement of vision that stirs our feelings to a height and raises our inner flight that has taken off uncontrollably now. And she can do with us what she desires, shaping our carapace. She has obtained the powers to shape it into silver arrows and the spear of Athena with her shield that protects her, while she changes again into the body of Achilles, who spears the wild queen of Amazons in a duel that she has cunningly evoked. Achilles is confused. What will he do? At first, he is only trying to defend himself. He is not at all prepared to fight a woman, even if her war-cry rouses his skin.
What a strange man he is, thinks Penthesilea, as she tackles the great hero, gaining confidence at his manoeuvres to defend himself. Perhaps he is just a paper tiger, she teases him and she gets careless, having slain many men and heroes before. This one will be not different to the others. Invincible? Heh? I show you the powers of a woman you dickhead. She starts to annoy him and call him names, and spurn his anger, waiting for him to lose his cool. She has a Mercurial mind and she is cool and sharp and tidy in her attacks, now hurting him considerably, but unable to pierce his impenetrable armour.
I like her rather, Achilles thinks, she is fighting like a man. She is rather beautiful with her swaying breasts and her excited nipples that point through the sheerness of her dress. For a moment he loses his mind, admiring her beauty and he drops his awareness of his usually sharp senses. She hurts him, although he is almost immortal, she pierces him with her lance and for a human being that would have been a mortal wound already. But then he thought she cannot wound him. Achilles is astonished about the blood on his thighs. Then as he slowly wakes from his day dream about her, he observes that it is Penthesilea’s blood from a wound he had inflicted on her as she came too close to sink her spear into his side.
“Damned!” She moans, “I thought I had him for good. He is after all immortal and I am certainly lost. I have to try something other, faint and play the dying, maybe I can soften him up and then plunge my poisoned dagger into his heel?” And as she thinks about a way to kill the hero, he has plunged already his lance into her side. Yet she is sensing his sympathies for her, as he is now closer to her, stirred up into reality again, his dreaming left quickly behind. “He notices my charms,” she thinks, cringing in pain. “I have still left enough strength to kill him when he bends down to me. Aphrodite give me his heart!” She cries-up to the goddess of love and Achilles thinks it is her cry of pain he has inflicted upon her with his ferocious stab. “I’ll show him my body!” She parts her top showing him her jutting breasts. “I can sense his knees weakening; he is at a disadvantage now. Come closer Achilles, take me, take my lips, my breasts, my body, will you?” And she closes her eyes and opens her lips for his kiss.
He had lost his cool for a moment in the closeness to her that could have cost his life. His Martian self rises in a sudden flaming anger. In a flash-fire he realizes her cunning and her trap. Her seductive shapes are fading as his eyes are blurred with rage and he charges and aims his deadly lance at the bottom of her heart. She has ceased to be a woman, all he sees in her, is only the enemy. He is entering her bowed torso with the tip of his lance and she buckles like a deer, her eyes bulging with surprise. He has wounded the queen of Amazons mortally. She sinks in her death throws to the floor, her blood colouring the sand and her weapons slide from her hands, she is defeated. Dying.
She asks him to come close and she whispers to him: Achilles you silly man, why have you entered this deadly world of a worrier and summoned your instincts to kill me rather than to love me? Why Achilles, why? We are matching well, see? And she is lying in his arms, smiling with that curl around her lips, enticed that he has shown his love to her at least before she is fading from this memorable day and dying. “Put your finger into my heart and stop the bleeding…” She is going now fast, as she still feels his fingers touching the tip of her heart. “Ah!” She puts-up one final moment’s resistance to the cold grip of death that wishes to tear out her bleeding heart. But Aphrodite has bargained-out some more time for her. And Achilles kisses her lips. There are some distant murmurs around the arena at this unexpected outcome of this most unusual fight.
This was a moment of great heights, a moment of blood rush, the sensation of victory, he felt bad about. “This is not the usual sensation,” he thinks. “This is tragic indeed. This is what I wished for in a woman: virtue and valour, beauty and youth all in such an exciting mix. Shit! All now gone, the shortest stint of love I ever had!”
“Stop,” she says to him, “love me rather…there are now only moments left. And Achilles loves her. He is astonished himself. All falls suddenly still. Not a breeze in the air, not one sound. He can hear his pulses throb in his temples.
The shadows of death have coloured her face and body. She lies still, almost translucent enfolded within his clasp. Achilles has listened to her final cry. This time it was her height in pleasure as he touched her. His alertness heightened and suddenly turned into a flood of feelings. A dam of powers has burst and he is facing now a beloved, not an enemy any longer. He wishes to stay close to her face and his heart desires her open lips, where her last cry has left with a final breath. He kisses her and she opens her eyes once more. “It is you,” she whispers, “my beloved? I want to be in your arms forever, together we are most powerful in love. You made me happy and I do know now that death is love!”
Her had rolls slowly to her side and Achilles overcome with compassion, kisses her cheeks. A tear has fallen to her cheeks, rolling down along her neck to her breasts. It changes from its milky state to the colour of blood. There it mingles on her skin with white and red blood and he feels exhausted and stirred-up in an enormous bout of anger and frustration, as he cries-out at last to free his pent-up emotions:
“No! Penthesilea come back, come back! Gods of the heavens, you have all deserted me.” He curses the Sisters of Fate and soon he will be reminded to be careful of ever cursing them again; be careful to challenge their ultimate powers that rule life and death.
Then this small insignificant man comes along and giggles and plays fun of this tragical scene. Achilles at first thinking of him as a clown and one of the camp that has been employed by Agamemnon to cheer-up the heroes and the worriers about falling into a depressive state, their friends and loved ones being slain. Then it dawns on him that this man is a brawler and he is being insolent to him. He signals him to come closer and hold his tongue and as he carries on ridiculing Achilles, who obviously has gone bananas, he is warned that it is not wise to challenge a hero as a demagogue. Achilles on his rising peak of anger slays the man. Thersites, who had no time for regretting his mockery about this unusual love, as the hero’s silences him forever blind rage. He is made to pay for his slander with his life, becoming the sacrifice for Achilles’ deed of bursting forth from his frustration in a moment of pure love, he could not hold, keep, prolong and cherish with the dying queen. There was no advantage gained and no sense in her killing. He laments about her loss and her challenge to become the worrier queen-heroine of all times. What silly undertaking and for what purpose? For Troy? Troy will be laid to ashes anyway, if he wins or not. If he could have just eloped with her to one of the islands for a great weekend and then resolve their differences and settle rather on a draw in fighting to enjoy the equal pleasures in love.
They both could have lived-on for a little longer to love and use the powers within for their greatest peaks in fusing their beings. Fusing their worrier attitudes would have become the greatest story of love. All these notions go through his traumatised mind, as he retires from this battlefield in front of the impenetrable walls of Troy. He seeks the waters of the sea, to calm his concussed body and then down a pitcher of cooled wine, to burn the inner pains with a greater fire within.
I think of Egypt’s Hatshepsut, another woman of great powers that are bestowed on a pharaoh. She even wore men’s clothes to appear regal and never weak. In her quality time she fused her powers with that of her advisor and architect, who designed for her the greatest contemporary temple in front of her burial site. It had to be the greatest tomb-architecture a woman pharaoh ever built. There she was excited on her bed and she opened her body for him, enticing him to fuse his powers with hers. Love had finally triumphed that moment above all else. In a nearby vessel she had mingled gold from Sinai and silver from Nubia and in the heat it became Electron she needed for the gilding of the peak of her famous obelisks that her man had turned into, through their love and their memorial for eternity.

Did Achilles fall to the deadly arrow dunked into poison that was directed at his heel by the powers of one god or by the cursing of men? We never know, as it is always a god that makes inexplicable things happen. We subscribe these events to gods, but perhaps they are planned by men so entirely controlled, we cannot imagine human deed, although we feel that a whole army has suddenly turned against one.
We shudder and look in awe at the pain and human suffering and we know that there will be no definite answer and never a proven truth, as hard as we feel the bitterness of intrigue ripping out our anxious hearts.
I do not ask Simi why she is so close to events that are hitting at the hearts of many and are perhaps aimed at others. Stirring of war for some ultimate motif? I do not ask her why she is like a shadow of forecasts, and why she looks at me with such big and mournful eyes.
I have fallen in love with a woman and I do not ask her what she does, or why she jets across continents and visits places, where the wrath of bursting fire will incinerate the unfortunate and where catastrophic events follow like a dog at her heels. She has sharpened my alertness and she is definitely endowed with great powers. I shower her with my love and wonder if she is at all touched by some of it. Is she at all beckoning me to mingle our powers of love like silver and gold, and if she would turn me into Electron that she would use to gild the arrow heads of her invincible armoury? Have I ever touched the tip of her soul? Perhaps I had achieved a small touch, a tiny grip, like the tips of my lips and the tip of my tongue darting under her toes, her feet and finally into her Achilles heel?

Bus Stop

Joined a woman waiting
for the bus
late this morn’
she asked if I would leave
for the airport
no I replied this’s my holdall
I throw all my stuff into
she called a taxi
come with me to Stadtplatz
she said.
Thanked her introduced myself
asked for her name
Weisskirchner she said and left
across the pavement with her
dark-blue walking cane.
Good things happen
even if this morn’ it supposed
to snow
but rained instead.
Martha showed me point-massage
we talked Hungarian
nice girl would talk more
but had to go.
Talk more to strangers than
I talk to my spouse
although we are together 47 years
What do you make of it Albert?
I hear the jagged voice of Miles
asking the same ques to his record
producer completing a jazz session.
What would I listen to if not to

Acropolis Book III Reflexions.


Last Saturday night he fell down and had not even noticed it. He was dead drunk, but had not been sick. In his sleep he wondered about how he had found back to his small bedsitter. In the morning he noticed the plate glass table on the floor, with the white powder-coated tubular steel frame on top of it. What had happened?
Slowly his memory started reconstructing last night’s celebrations. He had been at a friend’s place, he remembered that part clearly and he had met an artist friend before. She had taken him to an art-warehouse, the only one in Vienna’s distant Simmering, not far from the last station of the U3 subway. A most fantastic display of all tools and accessories for all artistic endeavors, a heaven for the creative minded. Mona became excited as if she would be in love with him, but she was in love with the artist’s super-shop.
But why did he turn the heavy glass top upside down, with its sub frame landing on top of it? This thought interjected in his mind continuously. Well, he thought he must have fallen onto it. But he had no abrasions on his legs or on his body. His mind carried on with back flashes.

In the meantime Mona had been late that Saturday afternoon and she met him at the super shop’s coffee area, where she invited him for a refreshment. She took a cappuccino, while he decided to have an espresso. She talked about her work with handicapped people and that she cannot just leave her patients half-treated to come to meet a friend. Of course he understood and their fingers touched, as she asked for the sugar and Zed handed it to her. She had sinewy fingers of an athlete and Zed mused about their intense usage and the marks of using alcohol for cleaning, like a surgical team would, before they’d put on their gloves.
Mona is a special kind of person and he felt comfortable with her, probably due to her friendly nature that had though a pairing with a certain stubbornness if it came to defend a position in art and art-related subjects. Just like Zed did when he defended his way of painting and the inner happenings that he wished to depict with his mystical realism, as he called in general his oeuvre. Mona seemed to like him and she brought him presents, whenever he met her, as today she would encourage him to buy some watercolour paper and a sketchbook.
When she accompanied Zed to the aisle, where the various paper qualities were stacked onto shelves, she encouraged him to choose a watercolour block and a sketchbook of good quality, as Zed intended to take the more reasonably priced ones. “I buy, you choose”, she announced and took the medium quality stuff and placed it into the trolley, she had organized meanwhile. “But…”Zed protested…”well, you paint and I buy”, she laughed. “OK, let me paint you something then.” She smiled and Zed took it for a deal.
After shopping they took to the road and walked to the nearby Metro station. Zed wanted to validate his prepaid ticket, but the validator did not work. “It’s only two stations from here”, Mona said, “let’s go!” Two stations later they took the exit nearer to Simmeringer Hauptstrasse and two blocks down the road they entered an apartment building. They took the lift to the fourth floor and Nica opened the door at the first ring of the doorbell.
“Ah, here you are both!” She hugged Mona first, then Zed kissed her cheeks. “Welcome”, she said and please come in. They took their coats off, cap and shawl and finally their shoes. Close to the diningroomtable the food had been almost ready and well prepared. It smelled good. “What do you like to drink?” Mona choose fruit juice and Zed wanted a tot of vodka to kick off. Nica brought glasses and soon her daughter-in-law prepared the table with all drinks and food placed on top of the long wooden table, just as Nica’s tradition demanded. Zed had to smile, as he had never before came across such a custom. Then Nica and the girlfriends of her son and her daughter served the food: Delicious rice with hers, chicken drums and salad. Zed wanted to take his red wine, a Merlot, but Nica surprised him, “I have wine for you.” She handed him a bottle of Sauvignon Cabernet. “Mh, thanks”, Zed said and thought that this wine might be too strong for enjoyable drinking, but being polite, he tried it. They toasted. Nica addressed her family and her two guests with a short speech about remembering her dad, who had passed away 40 days ago, as is custom with the Russian Orthodox religion. After that all cheered and toasted to the memory of Nica’s dad. Zed found the wine a bit too harsh, but after two glasses, the Cabernet tasted smooth enough to be drunk. Yet soon after the meal Mona left as she had to visit a girlfriend. Nica said “I hope you two would stay this tie a bit longer.” Zed looked up. His eyes met Mona’s, who looked a bit concerned. “OK, I will stay longer”, Zed said. After Mona had left, he talked to Nica’s son and daughter and he seemed to have a good time, but forgot to watch his alcohol intake. The bottle stood in front of him and he talked and drank, talked and drank.

Then his memory faded and suddenly there was a blank. He was waking from a deep sleep and felt good. He wandered about having neither a headache, nor having been sick. “Horrible”, he mused, “cannot remember a thing, except sitting in the backseat of a car and listening to the voice of Vicky, Nica’s daughter, who seemed to find out where Zed lived. >From his mumbling, she reckoned to know the address and found it after some trial and error driving with her brother. Vicky gave this information to Zed, who met her at the art shop and he felt bad about having let himself go. But Vicky laughed it off.
Zed apologized to Nica and thanked her for her son of taking him home. “It’s my family!” She said proudly. Zed only nodded and thought of making good again. However, it’ll take some time and some paintings for Nica, to be in her good books again.
Zed had to see Nica every time, when he traveled to the art shop and he mused about the way he had fallen. Instead of stopping drinking, he had finished the bottle. “I behaved like a peasant”, he mumbled and thought about stopping his urge of drinking himself into a stupor and into consequences, out of his rational conscious and out of his control. But how often did he remind himself time and again. It seemed to be a pattern. Since his bad understanding with his spouse B, he had not confronted her immediately with matters that bothered him about her lack of understanding, which he supposed to have done! Damned! And he recalled the time, when B had driven him into a corner of having a threesome with another man, her friend, who visited regularly. It was not enough to entertain him with happenings around their own lives, serving whisky and nuts. No, B had to fall in love with their friend. This had been fatal and Zed thought a sexual encounter, where he should as well participate, with tooth and nails. Would it not mean that he agreed to it and let B become their friend’s concubine on a legal basis? Besides, Zed had to lose more, had she not told Mr. Erad that she would inherit a flat in Vienna? It all built up to a competition for B, so the winner would take all, not so? Zed had been fallen onto his face, cutting his hands and body in the smithereens of the smashed glass table in their dining room, but he would stand up the following day and carry on living, had B not expressed her egoistic interests in Erad? Well she could carry on with her life and handle it discreetly, but she was not inclined to do so. Zed would get ill on this cat and mouse game and land at a psychiatric clinic, but finally his message reached B in full scale and she cared for Zed to get out of the ‘looney bin’, as she caked it. However Erad seemed to hide behind his social mantle and keep his image of a good husband intact. So why should Zed then be the sacrificial lamb?

Has he fallen this time again? Well, he had a crash on Nica, when he met her at first, but she clearly refuted his cautious advances and told him straight: “You have reached an age, when one is considered to be old.” Hm, he thought, really? Good, he’ll look for a Muse and model for his paintings elsewhere. It’s not a problem, Nica did not wish having tactile contact with him, instead she chose a tall guy, who seemed to be somewhat boorish and it astonished Zed, even amused him about her unfortunate choice. However Nica only played a game and soon this was clear enough to him. Besides, on the one side he had fallen for her, yet on the other, he enjoyed watching her and listen to her views on literature and art. Yet her quick spoken words of judgement about her employer, T, were not favourable, as she always defended T’s spouse, who could most of the times feature as the poor abused woman, in the eyes of Nica. Yet Zed always took his time and detected that Nica had a quick mind, yet she spoke often uncontrolled and contradicted herself about T and his spouse. After all, she was employed by them and her loyalty was split, rendering her own split of opinion at all times. But overall she took T’s spouse’s side, while Zed, who had befriended T at first, before he had been accepted by his spouse, had loyalties to his friend, whom he accompanied to meetings, interviews by the media and exhibitions about the Holocaust. However, he would behave respectful to his wife and notice that T needed his wife more than she needed him. However, he would carry on to look after him, as he had promised his wife to do. Perhaps in this respect, he had a level above Nica, who was employed in the art shop. In these circle of friends and employee, Zed’s actions related to matters T wanted help with, while he also did work diligently to Nica’s directions, who acted on behalf of her employer, Mrs. T, whom she had ascertained her loyalty.
A difficult relationship, where Nica’s help and work had been defined by her agreed timetable, while Zed’s timetable was that of a voluntary helper, who also accompanied T as a friend, who at the same time became his PA for T’s many errands and meetings, especially in Bratislava.

So Zed had managed somehow to live in between these complex relationship levels, including his private one with his spouse B, the most difficult one. He had fallen into the trap of living together with a woman, who had become incompatible to live with. Yet there had been a reverse bad conscious between them, to abandon their childless marriage on the one hand, and on the other to leave the partner for 47 years lying abandoned in the corner of a broken relationship. Had they not rescued each other many times from mishaps, bad physical health, incurred debts and hostile attacks by unprofessional competition? Two persons, however they might have developed through all these years of married life, cannot forget the long road together, either in sickness or good health, in extramarital affairs, or with pulling together on same string of a last try to get this cart of life up the last bit of inclined road.

But as B is carrying on to be angry about Zed’s small mistakes and habits, she shows herself like in a mirror accusing herself of having failed in a relationship that lasted close to 50 years. Zed, who is not a regular living individual, has a habit of forgetting time and space around him, when he is creative and in a groove for inspired writing, or for transforming his poetry into paintings. B has only critique for him and she states that he supposed to cover up his paintings that remind her of the Holocaust. Zed paints his sadness of having lost his Muse, Anna, into his canvases and depicts her in his drawings. He has to place on his earphones and listen to Cannonball Adderley, Miles Davis, Oscar Peterson, Keith Jarrett and Michel Petrucciani, in order to cut-out disturbances in his marital life, as well as in an effort to tolerate his spouse’s own life that runs parallel in their small bedsitter and separate kitchen, where they share domains. It’s not a competition of who will not be the one that will fall in the end, but if they both have enough energy to carry on with their individual lives and foster enough tolerance at the same time to survive in an almost impossible match of their changed characters.

Diminuendo in Blue 渐弱蓝色 (II)



Once emerging from loneliness

the poet has taken the hand

offered by a contemp artist

human being and fighting spirit for

all suppressed human beings

on the verge of extinction.

Dulled are times before and even

of past Muses conceding to the

poet’s gait of moving forward into

the land of extreme differences.

An interpretation that’ll split up his

inner world of extreme solitude

where he found reflections of his

true feelings

but also counteractions of a devil’s


When artistic intuitions recline and

fade into the milky atmosphere

of a known rapid passing landscape

he’ll take memo-shots with his mind’s

instant digicam

for later rework of the images from

a trip to new frontiers of feelings.

Like dough kneaded by his body’s

resistance for anything different

compared to sacred images of Anne

Muse of one in a lifetime love.

Is this a concluding protest of the straw

that rises up man high

before the flames of an all-consuming

flash-fire take it down and

in spite its rising white smoke density

it slowly diminishes

between coats of blue lacquer

upon the broad canvas of the skies?




Crescendo in Blue 渐强蓝色 (III)

This poem to deal with

a crescendo in blue

has to be written as a ballad

for love that had ended at a

conceiving state

before it had begun to rise up

from the fertile ground

where it had been planted by

the Ellington Band

into the musical soul of the poet

interpreted for things to come.

In softness of harmonies

the music is far advanced

like a prophecy for events

that may still arrive.

It has been understood by

translators of English into Chinese

so access to the unique world

of artists will be guaranteed.

Hand in hand.

Face to face.

Eye to eye.

Skin-tight interhuman tensions

of good vibes in love.