Lifted From Oily Tom

My knees were sore to some extent, and I around them and above them and below them knew quite why — I did, you know. They were sore because they, along with the ground, had been supporting the rest o' me as I knelt — that's what you do with your knees, I'm told — and, in fact, did. Why was I a-doing the kneeling? 'Twas because the activity I was doing while knelt required it, see? But the thing of morer importance, I felt and feel, will be dwelt upon more then the knelt, as there's only so much kneeing you can do, and there's only so many words you can use to describe it. Anyway, the thing was a non-physical-type thing. It happened 'twixt my ears, you see.

Before this occasion of my description, there was a great bridge between myself and woman that prevented me and myself from ever approaching them and themselves. I was as scared as a chicken and a bail o' hay in winter. Now, however, after Miss Piphany struck her lovely old wand on my soul, I knew how to overcame this here problem.

Oh I was in a bar after all this occurred. In a horrible bar. I was scoping out nice faces.
"Hallo," I said. "How are you a-doing?"
"Yes."

We never married, nor did we wed. In fact we didn't even interact beyond that point. But how I was satisfied.