I'd be a romantic like Shakespeare if I was to claim that journeys end in lovers' meeting. I don't know yet if I believe in that, if I should and if I could, yet, be naive enough on purpose to achieve those mind struggles.

I'd be more inclined to say that love, passion, and all those meaningless expressions, are nothing but a bunch of techniques, used by clever people to trigger the brain atomes that freely move inside other people's pants. 

You all expect an "I thought, until I met her". That'd be great, for sure, to bury my nihilist perspectives deep down onto my courtyard. 

That night and those before, this girl always had that power to trigger my atoms, in a specular way that I wouldn't just want to do dirty things to her. "Could it be that my pants' atoms weren't in charge anymore?" I thought. "Who was in charge then?"

If you had to identify how I felt, It'd be like swallowing absinth, burning your throat, yet smiling. She was dancing, I was dancing. our bodies would freely move without purpose. Yet, we would seduce, have fun, like peacocks acting human. 

We were stumbling in the dark, colliding with others, yet never breaking sight from one another. Thrilling, it was. Really, very unexpectedly, all those moments we shared before would mean something for one night. 

It'd be a fusion of pleasures, like making crepes and drinking milk, getting a massage while smoking grass, having sex until climax.

All those feelings came through for 57 seconds, stopped for a second, and came back for 57 more seconds. Over and over.