Con una salchicha melosa y vegana que crece sin que nos demos cuenta. The only response, of course, to Parajanov's pregunta: How am I to protect the wax-built castles of my heart from the devouring fires of your love? I'm waiting for her heat, a pomegranate seed redding my bottom lip, the floor of my jaw weighty. My teeth have become used to her nails knocking for entry. My gums to her searching tongue. I've been brushing longer than usual, flossing enough for her to call through the bathroom...