For Where All Love Is, The Speaking

Do Ye Want Me?" He Whispered. "sassenach, Will Ye Take Me - And Risk The Man That I Am, For The Sake Of The Man Ye Knew?

Time Is A Lot Of The Things People Say That God Is. There's Always Preexisting, And Having No End. There's The Notion Of Being All Powerful-because Nothing Can Stand Against Time, Can It? Not Mountains, Not Armies. And Time Is, Of Course, All-healing. Give Anything Enough Time, And Everything Is Taken Care Of: All Pain Encompassed, All Hardship Erased, All Loss Subsumed. Ashes To Ashes, Dust To Dust. Remember, Man, That Thou Art Dust; And Unto Dust Thou Shalt Return. And If Time Is Anything Akin To God, I Suppose That Memory Must Be The Devil.

Mo Nighean Donn," He Whispered," Mo Chridhe. My Brown Lass, My Heart." Come To Me. Cover Me. Shelter Me. A Bhean, Heal Me. Burn With Me, As I Burn For You.

It Wasn't A Thing I Had Consciously Missed, But Having It Now Reminded Me Of The Joy Of It; That Drowsy Intimacy In Which A Man's Body Is Accessible To You As Your Own, The Strange Shapes And Textures Of It Like A Sudden Extension Of Your Own Limbs.

I Work Late At Night. I'm Awake And Nobody Bothers Me. It's Quiet And Things Come And Talk To Me In The Silence.