Dear Diary,
I met Burt Reynolds today
after what seemed like a shallow eternity of waiting.
When he touched me it was electric,
like all of his immense energy concentrated
into his fingertips and discharged on the surface of my skin.
I wanted to sing, but he wanted to dance, so
I held his moustache while he twirled around the room.
My song seemed to echo forever:
O glorious, glorious.