Wednesdays are like come-ons. Tempting while I blush and engulfing me in the spirit of madness. The good spirit (sans spirits), a phantom release of pleasure. Free from the escape, unencumbered by the echo of days just passed. Wednesdays are to me an image ripe and pure. The vixens of the mid-week impelling my vocabulary, nay, my gravity! Altering the force of my axis and wielding me with naïve joy. How sensitive and sarcastic of me to fight an unearthly invitation. Like the first cynic, shall I lie with the dogs? Or open free and wide the lung space I'm apportioned and open, VASTLY OPEN, those breathing apparatus; while owning the best of myself on the best of my days? A question to be sure, but one of obvious resolve.