There was the one time, recently, where someone was talking to me about dreams and wonderful pies and things, and she kept on and on when we could have been eating or hiking or fucking or something, so I punched her square in her arm, right at the termination of the bicep valley, although not hard enough to be anything more than playful.

Instead of bitching about being punched she turned and smiled and kicked me in the shin, again in the context of play, and it was understood that although I am a man with dreams and hopes and fears and great potential and imperfections, I am a man of reality and the tangible, so instead of talking about wonderfully florid dreams I need to do things or be silent or go off and write about all the beautiful stuff that I can never speak of but consider and ponder to their everlasting death.