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This morning as I wandered to my car, blinded by the fog of a level 3 hangover, I felt a chill on my shoulder where my girlfriend’s tears had soaked it. They were evaporating, being drawn out into the air, the hottest tears first. Now I am at work, and her tears are gone. Science is poetry, Ben.
If women were a maze, all points would lead to a little track that surrounds the middle, where the walls are just too high to see over. I do not think this is a mystery I, or you, or anybody except maybe Carl Sagan can solve. Then again, he was married three times, so there you go.