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.