You'll never be history. The Garden of Power is vested in our
sexual interest. Bodies cling to being thought of as desireable. This contact we have is intangible. Angels release love momentum in spirited
tongues feeling the earth's upper crust. That's you and me, the skin
covering our dilapidated bodies. In supreme acts of love's lonely lunacy
and need for optimum integration, we layer ourselves on each other's
forever widening groundlessness. Open space taking over the world. Our
last hope.