That crazy little thing Freddy talked about.

Melancholy. It's not the inability to live, or to find peace, but that I cannot find closure, for it is not available

Love. The irrationality of the willingness to lay down our very lives without a second thought. I understand it only too well. It's basic. I learnt it as a boy, with my friends, daring death in any corner. As a man, with my comrades.

As an adult with my daughters, with you in such a final way.

Love is offering without forcing the proffered present. Offering my all, and no holds barred.

You'll call it sickly, irrational. It is. It's the basal ganglia at work. Passion.

Then, there is the love in my prefrontal cortex.  Perceiving you and me, and how, where is your space. Where is mine. The civilised compromise of friends who share. The empathy and trust.

Also, the motor responses for those torrid moments are there, too.

The sympathetic and parasympathetic activity (the butterflie, dillated pupils, etc.).
, the processing and integration of all sensory memory/input that draw me a picture of you, 24/7.

It involves all of me, of which you may take what you please, and it would please me. Or you would leave the plate untouched or partially eaten. It would please me, too. I would know.



All  I need is it coming from your lips. It's beautifully simple.

I have been known to be quite thick.