It's tempting to think that feelings exist in a person before they suddenly catapult out of the body to adhere to, coat, or burrow into parts of the world. Rather than create them on the fly or fashion them from spare parts (how exhausting), we could store them for future use in a sort of emotional grain silo or bread box. These rainy day feelings would quietly hum or vibrate pleasantly as we go about our daily business. I feel better, more prepared for contingencies, if these drums are topped off, sealed, and dated for freshness. You never know when a sizable, more-than-quotidian quantity of grade-A love is going to be required on a moment's notice, for example, and it would be disappointing to find it in short supply or of lower quality when reserves are called upon. What if I suddenly need to explode with rage at someone and find myself caught short, or forced to get by with stale hatred in last season's colors? If I am going to bring out the superstar emotions I want them to be my best, my first string. I want tender affection to fly at my chosen object with the crisp zing of ninja throwing stars. I want impressive fistfuls of moral indignation to overwhelm my target and look damn good doing it. The other night I scraped the cobwebs off some creaky ancient lusts I'd discovered hidden beneath some moribund animosities and found they just needed a little polishing up to look good as new. After a little routine maintenance you couldn't distinguish them from fresh excitements. The aching desire with which I am regarding you was minted on a sizzling afternoon in July, 1987. As I get older it becomes more important to periodically exercise the little guys to stave off the inevitable disintegration. Still, one day I'll go to the well and find it bone dry. A sad day, but at least then I'll be able to get some reading done.