Maybe I’ll to drive to the top of Mount Herman. I’ve been told there’s a stand of Aspen with trunks thicker than an average man can hug. I’ve been told I’m not average, though its never clarified whether above or below. Chances are good lovers have made the same drive and knifed their names in that white flesh. Why the fools couldn’t just make love and leave, I do not know. The Aspen just stood there, quaking, and took it. Maybe the gashed gods on top of Mount Herman pray for unaverage men to try their hands at hugs. Something tells me they would stand there, and take it.