At times it seems to me I’ve never gotten over anything. No, in my life I haven’t. It seems to me at times my life has been an erring line unerring of embarrassments, a chamber of humiliations. The chamber of my making as are humiliations and every instant I’m reliving every instant of it: my disgraces and my failures and betrayals to and fro. I weaken so at times, my arms are at a loss to lift me from dread reveries of oh such little things they’ll be: a misused word, mishearing, a stolen or mistaken glance goes noticed or unnoticed, an abortive kiss or idiot embrace, unfortunate turn of phrase. The language, again. It kills me bit-by-bit. Or it’s the interaction actually fragments me and after all, I’m already half a fragment only. Three-fourths unfulfilled and attempting sips half-wittedly at that forbidden fountain turns insipid at the tickle of my lips or tongue unwieldy.