An unexpected feeling comes upon me in the wrestling ring. I believe it is the sensation of marigolds—a flower of intoxicating beauty with an unpleasant, pungent aroma. And then, ever as unexpectedly, the aroma of jasmine tea steeping on the samovar on a wind-swept, wintry night. And then the feeling of your powerful, muscular arm around my neck—you have put me in a sleeper hold!

That wasn't unexpected. That happens all the time in the ring. I appreciate your gently nudging me back to the 'here and now.' And in doing so, I fall into a deep slumber; the marigolds fill my nostrils.

I mean, really fill my nostrils. They are all the way in my nostrils. And my nose is a little bloody. Sometimes I prefer to think only of the good times. This could one of them, I think.