"I will allure him to the wilderness, and here will I speak tenderly to his heart", I thought. 

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He hath variety, the illusion of control. A ghost between the veils of perception. I was Thoreau’s restful kernel in the magazine of the universe. I was an ounce of dick and ten pounds of balls. We saw a sham world because we lived a sham life. But in the dark night of my soul, brightly and majestically shone his river. The obsession was high, but the dream was going nowhere.

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Here is Saint Augustine’s ictu trepidantis aspectus, the thrust, or the blow, of a trembling glance. The entire devastation of a look from thy beloved’s eyes now void of once radiant love. Lay his icy heart upon the fire that dully smolders, make his indifference to melt away like water. I poured cool spring on his baking rocks and disappeared in the fog like the Bridegroom.

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I have felt watched from on high since adolescence, known not by whom or for what reason. This was and is my God. Our time together and our love has grown in these many years. This extra plane, this fourth dimension of existence, I pause gently and sweetly thereon. I carefully cherish this sensation while it continues. This inner dialogue, this holy courtship, this spiritual ecstasy - Augustine's penitus avertitur atque abripitur, when the attention of the mind is wholly withdrawn from the bodily senses - remains unchallenged in purity, and joy, and clarity, and makes life worth living, and annihilates the shoddy mask of death. How can anything be amiss?