Liz Taylor and Richard Burton were puttin on that splendid display of rancor for George Segal and Sandy Dennis. I've seen that picture in less than glamorous context. If only they handed out academy awards for genuine drudgery. I've been to the premiere. Unceremoniously ushered down the red carpet through the dark passage and taken to a seat in the front row. Oh yes, that split tongued mutual acrimony unfolding from the Adder's mouth. Hissing at the wind and anything within striking distance. I've seen those fangs out and poised wide as those words pool at the tips of those fine points and then injected into the bloodstream. The eyes go grey and stale, the body spiritless now and resigned to defeat while that virulent discourse pursues the heart through every unwilling channel turning the blood cold and black in it's wake. It's worse than watching a violent demise at the hands of a grinning fiend. To see someone being slowly cut to ribbons intrinsically. Those whom acquiesce this indolent torture must pray for a hasty, exquisite death I can only imagine. How does love become seething hatred? Is time such a great and bitter phenomenon that it must castigate us with such deplorable means? As if we're not already furnished with the lowly state of constant embarrassment for our emotional encumbrance? It must be that love is some ephemeral solace from this callous microcosm of senselessness just as it's inanity serves as a bastion from natures aloofness. This must be it, this impaired paragon, for as far-reaching or as transient as it can be.