Desperate fingers claw for purchase on sweat-streaked skin that snake-like writhes and strikes with vicious thrusts.

Ravenous for la petite mort, we seize our own gratification with the biting teeth and bruising hands of urgency and indifference.

No love lives in a raging tempest. We are lost in fervour as fierce as a hurricane yet empty but for the force of the gale.

With a shaking crescendo of aching muscles and hot saliva, our song of necessity ebbs as we sail out over the cliff’s edge into silent darkness content in the dying moments of conscious free-fall.