The inveterate melancholic that I am, I catch myself sifting through the memories of the hour car ride that separates Albuquerque from Santa Fe — eternally. The Sandia Mountains, fingertips drenched in frothing snow, greet the arrival with solemnous salaams. The rest, an ostensibly barren wasteland, a flat martian landscape etched into the geographic façade of a long-forgotten primeval sea.

Albeit this is another story — one redolent of warm kisses and tingly noses, burgundy-tinctured blood dappled foamy-white snow, and maddening nihilistic pedantry disguised as didactic discourse; yet it serves here the rôle of the poetic libitation and supplication, to wit, a beck for inspiration.