It's like you've been ripped open, and I'm squatting down beside you like a two-year-old next to its run over dog, and poking at the still warm guts of a dying creature. You're bleeding words and sound and emotion and I'm there, watching, wondering. I've got your blood on my hands and I'm tempted to taste it. It's beautiful. You're not supposed to be mesmerized by such a scenario, but I still am.