How shall I begin...

Tell me.

Tell me, as I lie here with my head resting against the soft hollow between your collarbone and your arm, of adventures of tales and tales of adventure.

No, tell me not of films and books; of the origins of flashing Coca Cola signs; of the importance of Khipu in South America.

I long to hear your tale: a story of adventure, a narrative of event (not abstraction. I want to hear of absurdity; of people dressed in oddly frilled coats; of endless days in dull occupations; of monkeys and spiders (and spider-monkeys?); of sailing across on the wide ocean; of butterflies and moths; of wind-swept shores and islands you've seen disappear into the ocean; of Amazons running against you (while I secretly grin in approval); of mountains unreachable for fear of Yetis, skeletons and fluorescent moss; of endless forest where the Hoopoe sing cheerfully and hummingbirds hum; of...

No, I cannot say. I should not demand.

Mouth sealed, eyes shut; I wait as you stay silent and sleep.