This

"This is nice" he said.
"Which this in particular?" I murmured back lazily.

Because after all, there are so many varieties of this in the world, and so many of that. And between all of this and all of that and this and this and this...we get lost sometimes. So maybe this is everything it's supposed to be. Or maybe this isn't really anything. I guess it's just what we make of it. So sometimes we build mountains out of it, and other times we use it to cross rivers, and occasionally we just let it float sweetly on the air, breathing it in and forgetting that anything else ever happened.

What was this in that particular moment? It's slipped my memory (or so I'll say, knowing that full well to be a lie). I can't say it much concerned me anyhow. Whatever this may have been, I enjoyed it while it lasted, letting it drift over my languid form and being only half aware of it in my dreamy state. He was right, this really was nice.

Each this seems to have a given feel to it, a certain taste, a certain emotion. And this really was just that--it was nice. Not the sarcastic nice that filled in blank spaces, nor the general nice that didn't mean anything. It was the fulfilling sort of nice. This was nice. It was sweet but not too sweet, warm but not too warm, just transient enough to make it that much more worth clinging to like the rich flavor of a last drop of wine.

It's not really worth asking questions about this all that much. Most of them can't be answered, and the ones that can be...don't really need to be. I couldn't really say that this was simple. But how could it be anything but? Alas. I figured this just came and went sometimes, like those balmy summer breezes of summers long ago resigned to memory, leaving me to ponder those forlorn shadows of bliss.