And summer sun with striking reminders of a cold country where rain would soak us to the core: 

And so we are: 

Following the beaten paths of the author before us, the father who resides in heaven (or, perhaps, and in a blasphemous and conspiring tone, hell), the savior who is covered with the ink stains of a propaganda machine, the holy spirits (ahem, with the addition of liquors and brandies to taste): 

You wanted to kiss me then? I wonder, hard set to bite the left corner of the lower lip out of concentration and slash or determination, you wanted to put your mouth on mine, press lips, seal ourselves into a moment that alone could stand forever or compared to many others, go unnoticed? 

It was our choice, I tell myself, to walk these paths that placed us here again. We’re chipping at the concrete wall between our homes, some south-of-urban Shakespearian tragedy in the making; but isn't this our choice? 

As if our souls were bound by the pen, or the knife, or perhaps worse, the electronic mail or the keyboard. Like shackles on our ankles it holds our attention span for one more day, hoping for a new movement, hoping this will be the day that we find courage or a bashful secret or both, and wishing that today the past would go away for good and we could touch, breathe, sweat, cry, and fuck without this bittersweet remorse. 

Perhaps today is that other day, and a new day, washed by torrents of sky weeping, the water and the life pour together, and you and I... I daresay we may connect these points again.

We are mortals, bound.