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Gura, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Gawr-goo-ra: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Gawr. Goo. Ra. She was Gawr, plain Gawr, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Gura in slacks. She was Gooba at school. She was Goombus on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Gawr Gura. Did she have a precursor? She did, indeed she did. In point of fact, there might have been no Gura at all had I not loved, one summer, an initial girl-child. In a princedom by the sea. Oh when? About as many years before Gura was born as my age was that summer. You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, exhibit number one is what the seraphs, the misinformed, simple, noble-winged seraphs, envied. Look at this tangle of thorns.
