An Entomologist Is Not A Bug.

Marriage Is The Last Sacrament Available To Modern Man, And With The Terrible Destruction Of Interpersonal Relations By Capitalism And Its War-making State, It Is Not Very Available, Nor Is It Surely Enduring. But Then, Vision Does Not Come With Guarantees.

The Holiness Of The Real Is Always There, Accessible In Total Immanence. The Nodes Of Transcendence Coagulate In You, The Experiencer, And In The Other, The Lover.

A White Crowned Night Sparrow Sings As The Moon Sets. Thunder Growls Far Off. Our Campfire Is A Single Light. Amongst A Hundred Peaks And Waterfalls. The Manifold Voices Of Falling Water Take All Night. Wrapped In Your Down Bag Starlight On You Cheeks And Eyelids Your Breath Comes And Goes In A Tiny Cloud In The Frosty Night. Ten Thousand Birds Sing In The Sunrise. Ten Thousand Years Revolve Without Change. All This Will Never Be Again.

We Have Forgotten Love, And Sat Lonely Beside Each Other. We Have Eaten Together, Lonely Behind Our Plates, We Have Hidden Behind Children, We Have Slept Together In A Lonely Bed. Now My Heart Turns Toward You, Awake At Last, Penitent, Lost In The Last Loneliness. Speak To Me. Talk To Me. Break The Black Silence.

Lost In Loneliness And Pain. Black And Unendurable, Thinking Of You With Every Corpuscle Of My Flesh, In Every Instant Of Night And Day.