To the girl that never came to ecstasy, the wind said, “Hush. My Darling. My sweet, sweet girl.” Then the wind spun round her back, swirling round her torso, weaving through her arms, threading through her fingers, touching the tip of her right ear, softly, brushing the gentle meadow along her hands, getting cold, chilling her breast, pulling in her chest, squeezing her thighs, clenching within her ‘til her toes tingle, lifting her small pink chin and kissing her crescent lips, citrus dews, sun sparkles, shadows tingle, the wind and the sun now join together to play, to dance, to whip her around, to rock her, to shock her, but nicely, noblely, gentlemanly, like Hemmingway, a man that is good and true and fine, like O’Brien, that a man may carry many things, but a man is not a man that does not carry emotion, like Woody Allen, that swoons in gibbering adoration, like Murakami, are your dreams real? Who are you seducing in your sleep? In the darkness, in the ear, touching pinky toes, sniffing rose bowls, water, dew drops, collecting rocks, seducing dragonflies, coaxing punch cards, tripping girlfriends, holding hands, jacking off to magazines, IKEA catalogues, History Channel documentaries, after school specials, Jim Morrison’s grave, Natalie’s lips, watermelon, cows, scarred for life. Pick up your pink bicycle, the wind demands her, pushes her kindly, past the driveway, down the hill, like a pill, picking up speed. Not to be mean here, but should we help her? Go to hell, sir. Excuse me now. You’ve crossed the line. Walk down to catch her; don’t get invested. Just a second, I just want to stop her, before she falls off sir, I’m getting off at this stop now, I’m running on over, on the street shoulder, she’s waving her arms, like she’s doing a dance, she has no hands, but it doesn’t phase her, because the wind loves her, it carries her on, it has won.