I understand they find dinosaur bones there in your backyard. Big ones. I've never been to your house or even close to that neighborhood, but ever since you've written me, I am completely intrigued. What you said about me, I think about you in an execrable Hemingway way, maybe as in his "Death In The Afternoon." All the goring. Faintheartedness is nothing to be carried by bullfighters or by bone hunters, I suppose. If there were a way of going back to days of nobler more romanticized slaughtering in bullrings, without the controversy, I'd have to say it is more evident in our modern day Jurassic Park flicks where nerdish paleontologists are transformed into  fiendishly handsome toreadors.

I know I'm not making much sense. Bullfights and dinosaur rustling, what's to compare? One being non-civilized though colorful and bathetic, the other fantastical but forgivable because the beasts bite back. Oh, if only I could explain these machismo machinations. What a ruse. How song and dance does intrigue. Please write me again from South Dakota. I'd like to book one of those dusty dinosaur tours before I go extinct.  Bone hunts, bullfights, same difference.

Like one of Artemis' arrows, my direction was sure.
I was my own guide for so long; I made my own path.
Then, like the shock that Prometheus' fire must have been,
You came.
My axis shifted.
Did Atlas shrug? Who knows?
All I know is that I don't know my own path anymore.
Not without you.
Earth's gravity has certainly lost its hold on me.
I feel like I'm flying ever closer.
Closer to this new sun,
This...Apollo that I'm orbiting.
You.
Are my strange new feelings causing me to fear?
Fear that if you're my new, alluring sun,
I'm doomed to die like Icarus.
Coming too close to you, melting, falling...
Athena would laugh at my foolish faintheartedness.
If Hades himself came, with Cerberus in tow,
To take my soul to the Underworld,
I know he'd have to go through you.
The tale of the man who loved a woman so much
That he fought off the King of the Underworld,
Why, it would be passed on for generations.
Surely, over time, the facts would be altered,
The names and places changed.
We'd have our own mythology.
The one thing they could never change,
No matter how they tried,
Is the strength of our love.
Our love is no myth.
No.
Our love is gospel.