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She craved that swoony feeling more than anything, wanted to feel it from her gut to her legs and in her head in the middle of the night when she awoke for a glass of water, savoring the unforgettable, the blissful, the extraordinary. But these feelings, as most, have an expiration date, and theirs, like milk or eggs happens much more quickly than others, so the swoon turns into the memory of a swoon, and by and by, she couldn't remember the feeling at all without also feeling a quick little pinch of distaste, a sour sensation, a rotten egg.