How many lovers has it been? How many dreams have ended when they found out what she was really like? I make my excuses while she takes a shower and head back to mine. She howls and screeches but I’m far too drunk to take any notice. It’s been thirteen years since my dog Monty died, and in many ways, I think that’s when a big part of me stopped caring. Maybe I’m being dramatic. Perhaps I’m too melancholic for my own good. Whatever, this wine makes me truthful, and if the truth is sad then the truth is sad. If they say I’m too self-absorbed then it’s because they’re right. Making love a few hours later shortly after my return due to her pleading phone calls, she tells me it’s her time of the month but I say don’t worry but she worries. She says I’ll freak out but I say it’s nothing to be ashamed of. So she opens her legs and as I tease and tickle all the animals come from the forest and watch from the foot of the bed as we merge yet again. And sure enough there’s blood, and as it trickles down her thighs and stains the bedsheets I keep going because it feels so good. There’s a certain poetry to our union, and as the blood signals our transformation and the animals watch while balanced on their hind legs there’s no other feeling that comes close as my seed pumps deep inside of her. She worries she’ll get pregnant, but I say let it be. If it happens it happens. Such a carefree attitude I know, but we are the same as the cats and dogs and rabbits and foxes and hares. We are just the same as them. So let us transform. Let us leave behind the machines and become one with the realm of nature the modern world forced us to leave behind. If we mean what we say, we’ll do it anyway. If we really feel it, we’ll make it real come what may.