Tara brings the night's garbage out behind Merlotte's and hears a sound just around the corner: it's Jason, all hopped up on V, fucking Randi Sue with a giant grin on his face. Without stopping, he looks up at Tara's voice and lights up all over. "Hey, Tara! This is Randi Sue. Come join us. It's beautiful!" And it is. The world is sufficiently big that nobody holds anything against anybody else, because we are one. The sparks in the magnolia and the sparks just across Randi Sue's skin, you can see them: they are the same. What need is there to feel alone ever again, to try to fuck your way across the line, when you've discovered the secret of the universe is that you're already across the line. And they are in you, and you two are only parts of the universe meeting in a kiss, and saying in your pleasure, "I remember you. Welcome home."
"Fuck you, Stackhouse," Tara says, and opens the bag of garbage, emptying it on them even as he's continuing to fuck away. She doesn't mean it like he wishes. The garbage should smell bad: wrappers and that nasty beer water and food scraped from plates, mixed together over the course of the night, vegetables already wilting, meat beginning to break down, preparing to rot. It should smell bad; we have evolved with a sense of smell to tell us that some foods are dangerous, unpleasant smelling. It's part of the body's immune system, to tell us when parts of the world don't belong inside us, but outside us. You know the worst part about kids? The part where they play with their shit the first time, because they don't know how to interpret the smell; they can't filter it out from the constant onslaught of sights and sounds and other situations, so it gets lost. There's all kinds of examples of this kind of overload, and it's fine in context. But you have to be able to turn it off. This is HoHos to a diabetic: You shouldn't fuck in a pile of trash. That's something crazy people do.
When everything is beautiful, when everything's illuminated, you're not fucking in trash, you're touching God. Except of the three people in this scene, there's only one person who is seeing that; he picks it up in his hands, moaning and laughing while he fucks Randi Sue. He rubs it across her back. Everything is beautiful and significant, even the trash in Randi Sue's hair, even the smell of it on his hands and their skin; even as she's screaming at him not to stop. Dead matter against living skin: the secret is that there's no division at all, only love. That is a beautiful thing. In the blood there is life force, and there is truth. All blood is True Blood. This is the Ferrari and it always has been; he's only now learning to drive it, and learning where it takes you. Living skin, dead matter, separated by bullshit you can only see in context; all this matter and the sparks inside it are the point: they matter. They are significant and alive, whole in themselves, full of life and beauty. It's just nature, and nature's all we have.