un petit mort

This girl asked me, Have you ever fucked someone you cared about? Like actually cared about? And laying in their arms after, were you happy?

No, I felt deflated if anything, like staring into a void. That's why they call it a little death, un petit mort. There can be no real pleasure in anything so transient as the flesh.

I want hours, and days and months and years of illumination, centuries and aeons, not petty orgasms that you can get on any streetcorner. It's the things of the heart that last.

"What mean dull souls, in this high measure

To haberdash

In earth's base wares, whose greatest treasure

Is dross and trash;

The height of whose enchanting pleasure

Is but a flash?

Are these the goods that thou suppliest

Us mortals with? Are these the highest?

Can these bring cordial peace?

False world, thou liest."

F. Quarles