Lullabye and Goodnight

What's at the heart of your engine's race? I would never describe myself as a thrill-seeker, but that's a lie because the slow drain of the fast train of love is a rush like no other. My Spanish nanny used to sing a song to me about a lonely caballero who rode around the Mexican desert looking for nothing, for something, for anything. Then, one day, he met a woman, quite by chance, who was traversing the desert, too. She was a harpy and a gypsy but he loved the way she spoke and he fell madly in love with the food on her lips and he took care of her and washed her clothes but she teased him and made nooses out of words for him to walk into and kicked him with her heels in fake fury. She was a bitch and wasn't shit as a critic, but she could read and she was bad, and they made it work somehow. It's different now that I'm poor and aging because I've lost my harpy leanings and gypsy inclinations and I used to make love by candlelight but now I fuck to the televised war, or worse. I got existential exit wounds.