Cry me a river. The tears on my pillow since hearing Julie London sing those words hardly amount to a river, but there have been too many to count. Mostly, the recent tears are empathy driven, occasionally surges of amazement for high notes in songs or ovations of appreciation. The point here is you can't be fully contained with happiness if you can't cry. It's the hormonally triggered contrast to elation that quivers inside and produces gasps and tears. It's your emotional profile dressed in silk pajamas, a distant sob from chronic sadness. Even when the state of readiness retires to lullabyland, the armor of exuberance extends the R.E.M and guarantees a quality wake up the next morning. Scintiillation transcends completion.