You want to make it something beautiful, poetic, encapusalted moments of pure ecstacy running into each other like a stream cascading into a river. You want new words, words never heard before but words that fulfill their purpose so excatly anfd perfectly than any word gone before could, for they are simply what they are meant for. You want everything. You want to want more. Your inflating inflating inflating and then and well then you explode and then you know it wasn't poetic or beautiful, your embaressed your ashamed, your feel like your thoughts are being shredded through a cheese grater, a pestle and mortar is grinding, grating your thoughts. You feel stupid and ridiculous but you still you look back, you want to feel that one moment again and you want to recount it as something beautiful, poetic and most of all worth it. You cry, cry because you simultaneously want it back aswell as you want it never to have happened. Too much pleasure leads to too much pain, without the presence of the pleasure in the first place we would never know the pain of its abscence.