Fortunately, there's sex. That wide and lilting swimming pool. That whisper of dark, burrowing blue. That easy chaos, a tumble of limbs and bedsheets and daylight slipping. It's beautiful and strange and liquid and the opposite of your normal, waking self, which bangs into things, trips over the lips of sidewalks, careens perilously through through town on a red bicycle without a helmet. Your normal, waking self aims too much for good posture, aims too much for efficiency and speed, for thorough, synchronized tidy work. But not here. Sex offers up a kind of weakness, begs your imprecision, calls from you a deep, unfamiliar desire to topple what you know, where you're been, what you've felt and seen and touched. Sex unbuttons you, unpeels you, unmasks your disaster, your carelessness, your unstoppable mess.
Here, you are held close, folded in, hibernated and soothed and extended far away from the question mark you've been carrying. Here, your body finds its art, its consonant rhythms. Here, you are phrase, you are song, you are movement, you are the very heart of yourself, you are all heart. Something slides into the room of you, a palpable new texture - forgiveness, electricity, some palliative wash of truth - and you lose the harsher outlines of yourself, the timing, the purpose, the reason, and you become reason-less and with no purpose other than to love and be loved.