Like, instead of just saying the sex-type things we had been saying (such as “wow” and “oh God” and “hell yes” and so forth), we now began freestyling re our sensations and thoughts, in elevated diction, with eighty-per-cent increased vocab, our well-articulated thoughts being recorded for later analysis.įor me, the feeling was, approximately: Astonishment at the dawning realization that this woman was being created in real time, directly from my own mind, per my deepest longings. Soon, experiencing the benefits of the flowing Verbaluce™ in our drips, we were not only fucking really well but also talking pretty great. “You got it,” Abnesti said, with a laugh. It was something about the bushes and whatnot? It made you just want to lay out there and catch rays and think your happy thoughts.
At which point the garden just looked nice again. I sat, pleasantly engaged in these thoughts, until the Verbaluce™ began to wane. It was as if I could suddenly discern, in this contemporary vignette, the ancient corollary through which Plato and some of his contemporaries might have strolled to wit, I was sensing the eternal in the ephemeral. It was as if the garden had become a sort of embodiment of the domestic dreams forever intrinsic to human consciousness. It was like the bushes were so tight-seeming and the sun made everything stand out? It was like any moment you expected some Victorians to wander in with their cups of tea.
He added some Verbaluce™ to the drip, and soon I was feeling the same things but saying them better. “Super-clear.”Ībnesti said, “Jeff, how about we pep up those language centers?”
I said out loud, as I was supposed to, what I was feeling.
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