Begin with the hands, the strong, lonely hands that sign to me, or the tarry voice that drips into my soul’s unfathomed pool.
Symbiosis happens at a spirit level—yet a need to be contiguous holds little water. One can’t make love to water.
Star gazers point to the universal curve function. Not Einstein’s space-time bender: but only the shallow define love in terms of curves and curvature.
Scientists can land a robot on a comet. Help for me, it seems, will take more time. Wherefore shall I live, Johansson?
