Daughter as 'Spanish Rose".
'Leave us now' , just after sunset in Dreamland cemetery on All Soul's Eve.
Month: October 2003
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Hot damn, the Real Thing!
See that bright object above that looks like a frontal head-on view of the Starship Enterprise against our green (re-colored) Sun? That, my friends, is a superheated particle cloud 13 times the size of the Earth and hurtling through space at 5 million miles per hour. What's more...
"It's headed straight for us like a freight train," said John Kohl, a solar astrophysicist at the Harvard-Smithsonian Center for Astrophysics in Cambridge, Massachusetts. "This is the real thing."
Hehe. Move over 'Reality TV'. I'll be out, weather and sky-conditions permitting, Aurora-hunting tonight.
<-- (any resemblance between this 'face' and the Sun above is more than a coincidence )
Update: Yet another eruption from the same source of sunspots (486) has just occurred. It has already reached Earth (Thursday afternoon). It's also a super class (X-class) storm, Astronomers are also watching two other sets of sunspots for potentially hazardous emissions. This is really freaky.
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Have you ever made a butt call? I have, though I don’t think I’ve ever gotten one back in return. You know, they aren’t so bad really. Not once you understand what they’re about and learn to suffer the intrusion stoically. Best thing is to just grin and bear it in silence. But if you have to laugh or cry, go ahead. After all, you’re the unwitted victim.
Have you ever picked up your telephone only to hear noise on the other end? Or maybe you heard bits of conversation or singing over some static?
If you were lucky, you recognized the voice of someone you knew. That's when you realized what had happened: Your friend had accidentally pressed the redial or speed-dial button on their cellular phone, which then placed a call to you.
Maybe the phone bumped up against something in a purse or briefcase, or rubbed up against a seat belt. Or maybe the phone fell on the floor. Maybe the person just sat on their phone—which explains why some industry insiders call inadvertent dialing "butt calls."
—David Coursey, "Butt calls: Let's put an end to 'em," ZDNet AnchorDesk, October 8, 2003
So…what about inadvertent blogging? Have you ever posted something as ‘public’ that you thought was ‘private’? Have you ever taken self-revealing photos with a webcam not realizing that they were being uploaded and viewed on the internet? Have you ever cut and pasted the wrong text from the wrong document and hit ‘submit’. Even if you haven’t, it’s better to feign that you have. That way, you’ll have an alibi for the appearance of that stupid blog you wish to recant: “But…but…it was a butt blog!”
Yeah, a butt blog. The one that blew out your arse.
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Well, I reported the inconsiderate cemetery guard who’s inclined to lock live folks in (see post 4 below). The cemetery director seemed very concerned and said he wants to do whatever he needs to keep the cemetery a ‘positive and happy experience’.
“Oh yeah?,” I replied.“Then how about finding a cure for death?”
No, I didn’t say that.But isn’t it time for us to be dreaming better dreams than those that begin and end in euphemism?
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Imagine you have a pet and it gets loose and runs into a warehouse nearby, and you see it and go after it, but they (warehouse management) won’t let you in to search the warehouse, what do you do?
My pet is the lower form of life that I, from time to time, tend to exhibit. Though perhaps seen as dangerous, it is really endangered when it gets wild, loose, and beyond overview.
The warehouse is huge, exciting, and forbidden. I hear voices calling me out, but I imagine that amongst the stacks of various assortments or down the aisles of unexperienced provisions there awaits all the world has forever cheated me of, things that I feel it now owes to me. So I explore. This world seems mine—all mine. And I’m of a mind to abhor any interference and compel all desired compliance, if need be.
Yet the voices ‘out there’ still call and become shrill. “Here”, they clamor, “come out”. As much a warning as a loving plea, this “out” is my directional beacon, the only sign, symbol, clue left in that world that can save me. Save me? From what? From the gnawing toxins growing within. From the gorging that will become self-consuming and that’s about to begin. From the assembled hostile inorganics that spy my organics and want to settle the score. Oh what a poor little pet I’ve become, lost in a world that’s inimical to love and tendering, that’s devoid of petting, and views my blood as a colorful substance for letting. For the warehouse is actually a slaughterhouse. And all that which I behold, delicious dangling corpses, I shall become, if I stay for long.
“ .o..u..t ! ” And that’s the final beckon from afar.
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Could you pick my poison?
I’m lost in the enclosing darkness of this falling season.
So lost, in fact, that I’m bereft of reason.
So for my poison, could you choose,
Something immaculately deadly, something that soothes?
Could you dance lightly upon what’s grave?
To this muted earth, though yet undead, I’m seeming too confined.
So confined, in fact, in mundane thought, much buried is my mind.
So could you dance and lift me lightly from my crypt,
Leaving me unthinkingly entranced by your prancing steps?
Could you shake my branches?
My clothes, like leaves loath to depart, cling too tightly.
So tight, in fact, that I’m suffocated nightly.
So could you shake and make me drop
Beneath those leaves (with you atop)?
So pick the poison and be quick:
For from your lips I yearn to lick. -
I’m shocked and utterly saddened by this exposé. The American ‘Tiger Force’ was an elite unit in Vietnam 36 years ago that committed systematic atrocities against all whom they encountered. The terror they created was no less horrific than that of the terrorists we despise today. If American authorities now fail to bring war crimes charges against those responsible for the Tiger Force’s policy of death and cruelty, I hope that an international war crimes tribunal steps in and turns the screws relentlessly.
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Resting on a stone after a run. About the only time I don't have this backpack on my back or within 30 yards of me is when I run. It is a Targus laptop bag and typically holds my two laptops (one a mobile server and the other a lighter workstation), a book (currently The Great Gatsby), my digital camera, a USB hub, extra laptop batteries, extra camera batteries, an extra cell phone battery, various CD media, a USB lamp, various cables to connect everything for remote wireless access, and occasionally, my webcam (when mobile) and a couple of beers.
Some asshole retired cop has been locking up the cemetery early lately (it is supposed to close in the 'offseasons' of fall and winter at 5:30 PM. I got locked in last Friday even though I was at the gate at 5:28. Today I waited around the gate starting at 5:20. Sure enough, the jerk arrives and starts to close it at 5:27 even though he can see me and others with cars still inside. He's supposed to drive around and warn everybody of the closing schedule, but doesn't bother apparently. I'm going to report his lazy retired ass to the cemetery association on Monday. I actually confronted him today and forced him to admit it was only 5:29 and he said: "Okay, 5:29, fine. It's closed. Now get going."
The poor bastard doesn't realize who he's fucking with.
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I win motherfucker.
Because I’m still alive.
Because your sense of righteousness in my life non-abides.
I know you’re into this to-and-fro like an argument
between Pope Julius and Michelangelo.
You’d magnify death itself, bruise its repose,
and challenge life’s sanctity.
All for a chance at dissing me.
But my heart and soul are quicker than your lie.
And I confess to no regret in beating you
to the punch
line: I fingered a cream-filled Twinkie
at lunchtime.
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...sometimes it sounds like you're a flat piece of skinny shale dreamily skipping over a calm gleaming mountain lake...touch...touch...touch... Don't stop until you get to the other side!
And look at it this way, even if you *flop*plunk in the middle of your hops ...imagine it's just this tranquil clear water high in the Rockies, and the water is not deep at all, and you can just get up and wade through it while breathing in the mountain air and dreaming upon the clouds passing overhead.
At such moments, you imagine yourself a mountain lake nymph arising from a cleansing dip. And the rippling water about you conveys an energetic message of your grace, and the boulders on the mountains around you vibrate deeply with harmonic welcomes for your presence, and the slight but warm wisp of a breeze that begins to swirl around you imagines itself dancing with your splendor. Serenity rules and you are its goddess. Need is no where, as all is fullness. And, as you ponder with ecstasy the wondrous timelessness of it all, you wish (I wish) you had a satellite/internet-enabled pda to share the moment with your nympholeptic friend notforprophet....
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If you're a 'techie' this info about Xanga should interest/amuse you:
http://www.dnsreport.com/tools/dnsreport.ch?domain=xanga.com
The same report methodolgy issued this warning for the governemnt's site, whitehouse.gov :
WARNING: Your SOA (Start of Authority) record states that your master (primary) name server is: ep.eop.gov.. However, that server is not listed at the parent servers as one of your NS records! This is probably legal, but you should be sure that you know what you are doing.
(The ending comment sounds satirically editorial in conjunction with Bush's unending war in Iraq.)
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Widespread reports of alien abductions consistently remark about their fascination with our sexuality--always probing, and feeling, and groping. Apparently, they don't give much a damn about our intelligence or life support mechanisms. They grope.
Maybe, just maybe this is a sign that homo sapiens is the most sexually endowed creature in all of creation. If true, does it not behoove us to pimp our prowess to keep the cosmic center stage, so to speak?
Why?
What if ... All the cosmos is a stage and every human is a would-be sexual marvel amidst this mass audience of intelligent alien protoplasm that's, on the average, about as sexy as a gender-switching snail? But what if these aliens are not benign but just keep us 'around' because we're so damn fascinating? In the garden of our universe, these aliens are the gardeners. But we aren't weeds--we're flowers.
Because of sex, sweet-smelling sex, nectar-pulsing, petal-pushing, pollen-swishing sex.
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It’s my belief that the demise of Communism in the Soviet Union was due not to corruption, or excessive vodka drinking, or the disproportionate burden of the cost of the military on the economy, or the West’s active resistance to communist ideology, or the seductions of market capitalism, but due, rather, to the Soviet Union’s successful ventures into space.
Space is the great ideological chiller. No structure of thought can stand up against it: the farther you go, the less you know. And like the viral transformations borne upon biotic asteroids that have crashed throughout earth’s history into our atmosphere, making the experience of space an indulgent focus of one’s culture carries a life-changing payload. The space capsule sent out carrying an astronaut into space is never the same one that returns. It’s become a Trojan Horse, stallionized by the cosmic flow that pulses beyond this silent planet. And the returning astronaut, with his forever altered unconsciousness, returns as a psychically seditious hero to the dispatching cultural constructs that launched him out and beyond.
“Planet Earth is blue and there’s nothing I can do…”
Now, China has joined the ‘Space Erase’ with its premier launch and return of its first next-generation hero:
Yang, whose place in Chinese history books has now been assured, has been lauded as a "space hero" by the head of China's manned space program Li Jinai.
With that first step successfully completed Thursday's editions of virtually every Chinese newspaper carried Yang's picture on their front page, emblazoned alongside Chinese flags and images of his spacecraft blasting into space.
The state-run China Daily newspaper mirrored many enthusiastic reports with leading it coverage with the headline "Great Leap Skyward."
-CNN
My contention is that the precise correlate of a Great Leap Skyward is a Great Plummet Ideologically. And with a nation as great as China, that should become something wondrous to behold.
Hey China, Marx and Engels and Mao are about to get thumped. You’ve awakened the frontier-archetype once again, the changeling trickster of space has shattered the conceptual box, the ‘old ways’ are doomed for revamp, and there will be no more Mr. Rice Guy.
Now, if we want to defuse the recent, dangerous posturing by North Korea, just line ‘em up on the launchpad.
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Hover your mouse over the grayed applet below:
If you can't see the applet in Xanga, click here.
A pic from yesterday. I was painting on the scaffold in the background, but took a break to go wireless using my laptop and the wireless network already established at the house I was painting at. My laptop 'joined' the wireless network automatically--no configuration or permissions necessary. The homeowners, a pair of psychiatrists who were out of town (and are friends of mine), would have no clue that I was there tapping into their internet service.
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notforprophet is a very rare male name.
Very few men in the US are named notforprophet.
Be proud of your unique name!
source namestatistics.com
notforprophet is a very rare female name.
Very few females in the US are named notforprophet.
Be proud of your unique name!
source namestatistics.com
notforprophet is a very rare last name.
Very few last names in the US are notforprophet.
Be proud of your unique last name!
source namestatistics.com
Check the stats on your name. They've camvassed 1,219 Male Names; 4,275 Female Names; and 88,799 Last Names from the U.S. Census.
I wonder why there are so many more female names than male? Variety, thy name is ...
...attraction and resistance
appletsource: www.eigelb.at
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Insight into the mind of the Beast
(enter the Beast, as, in his mind, he contemplates his fairest Beauty, imagining his would-be lover cast upon a bed and enwrapped in swaddling lace)
*he grumbles to himself*
‘I am the beast
And you are beauty,
You are my feast—
so do your duty.’
Duty? The Beast is whacked-up on duty!
What a pity since Beauty, so pretty, wants love, not duty.
Yet Beast wants sex, good sex, the best sex from Beauty.
She’s doleful—if only he’d ask, not demand. And create with passion. And caress with his hands.
But Beast is beast, ‘more than a man’. Beast is the seminal yeast. And he epitomizes the power of rising. And he wishes to infuse his beauteous booty loaf as he so strongly wills to might. He can surely promise that. And he knows she knows he can.
Yet Beauty wafts, in this constructed space, like an ethereal aimless essence amidst his heavy, driven desire. Then disappears, as if into nothingness, right out of his unmet imaginings.
And ‘she’ leaves him wondering: ‘What has a man that I lack?’
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When I first started blogging back in 2000, there were only an estimated 135,000 blogs worldwide. Now there are about 5,000,000 with an estimated 10,000,000 in 2004. If only I could get everyone who blogs to just visit me once and merely donate a dime…hrm.
Perseus has done a scientific survey (n=3634) of blogs (to include the following hosts: Blog-City, BlogSpot, Diaryland, LiveJournal, Pitas, TypePad, Weblogger and Xanga) and found:
66% or 2.72 million blogs have been abandoned (2 months without update).
Active blogs were updated on average every 14 days. Only 106,579 of the hosted blogs were updated on average at least once a week. Fewer than 50,000 were updated daily.
92.4% of blogs are created by people under the age of 30.
The ‘typical blog’ is written by a teenage girl who uses it twice a month to update her friends and classmates on happenings in her life. It is written very informally with slang spellings, yet not as informal as instant messaging conversations (which are riddled with typos and abbreviations).
I’d so love
to be a teeny girl
writing a blog
blending into the blogosphere
like a cog.
“It’s on!”“It’s off.”
“He’s hot!”“She’s not.”
In and out of love again and again,
(always wondering who the hell is really my friend).
I’d feel more, more deeply than anyone before
(any skuzzi biches disagree-
yo’all alchowhores)
“hit me back”
“hit me back”
“hit me back”
: the modus operandi of my reverse attack.
I’d swear it’s over: my life…the knife…
(all the time dreaming to become
the hottest stud’s wife)
When my blog started to suck
I’d just start another
(reborn like a phoenix?
revived like Snow White?)
naw…twice bitten, once shy
but now fangin to bite.
new shoes, new hair,
new boyz, more toyz…
Gonna fill you in on all my joys.
“hit me back”
“hit me back”
“hit me back”
(sorri so sorri, I got off track!)
I’d so love
to be a teeny girl
writing a blog:
oozing into the blogosmear,
disappearing in the fog. -
I am so _________ today. I feel like my mind has been (mercifully??) sucked out and is spewing through a plasma-contrived conduit outward into space. It leaves me, mindless, in a place called desire. And I’m getting higher.
In a few hours, with particles of my detached consciousness dispersed above in Saturn-like rings around the planet, below I’ll become an animal craving, longing, yearning with only instincts for my guidance. Passion will go autopilot. Moons will howl at the wolf. Allures of the most enticing sorts, self-unsuspecting and otherwise, will glide into a single focused fusion. Distinctions of ‘in’ an ‘out’, ‘could’ and ‘can’t’, ‘must’ and ‘shan’t’ will dispel themselves as unneeded illusions. Soon, no more wait. And when that moment of ravishing rapture arrives, we’ll pounce, pulsate, and blend into the wild of each other.
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The men’s room at the Barking Spider is simply deplorable. How dare they operate a facility with two light bulbs burnt out?
This tree is taking the 'Fall' season a little too seriously.
Funny thing about ‘
But what if…
But for some the real question will then become: How badly do we want a Kennedy (with Conan in Camelot) back in the White House?
(By the way, talk about Arnold becoming Governor is not new. I foresaw the occasion more than a year ago
) -
Containment. I lack it. Other than economic constraints and time constraints and mental constraints and spatial constraints and gravity, I am uncontained. How can this be? How could such a state of affairs arise in this, our highly organized, modern world?
I am the Artful Dodger of another age, in a different sense, reincarnated. I found myself cast fatefully into this world, abandoned with mother, and developed a knack for psychic self-liberation that, I’d dare to challenge, is unrivaled by others.
Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima bullshit culpa.
*scanned, bacteriologically sterilized, and prepped for starhop pre-induction*
I go nowhere. But arrive everywhere (and thus am the prime suspect in all crimes considered). I’ve withered on the vine yet have found myself subsequently cast by Johnny Appleseed yonder. I’ve pondered the full moon upon a still lake when drunk. And have hid in armored tanks while killer bees rumbled overhead. I’ve psychically witnessed the undead become dead. And have died once too few times to ever die again before eternity’s end. I was an adventurer in time until blogging revealed itself and then I became a cyber-Jason in search of the Golden Fleece. I’ve sought nirvana, found self-annihilation, but have never been granted a lover’s release. I am the Conifer Bodhisattva here to assure you that hemlocks are the heroin addicts amongst trees (possessively coveting every precious needle of juicing).
:that is my cosmic resume.
Will work for food.
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You’ve got to love bloggers who purposely generate controversy only to complain that some of their readers, by taking the other viewpoint through comments, are totally misconstruing them and should refrain from even commenting. Those are the kind of bloggers I don’t even bother anymore to read. And I could name a whole handful of them that all of you would recognize, but then I would create controversy. And I’d be damned if I would allow you to disagree with me.
You’ve got to love bloggers, too, who pledge to destroy themselves but never do. The ones who can’t take it any longer, but keep coming back for more and more. The ones who lead you off the end of a cliff. And then you realize that they have a parasail and you don’t. Don’t know the sort I’m talking about? Stick with me, the end is near.
You’ve got to love bloggers, too, who’ve been regular readers for years. Then one day, they never come back. Oh, they’re still blogging, they’re not gone. They’ve just decided to stop coming around to your blog—without warning or even a final goodbye. And here you made them such a huge part of your life and they just take up, like it was a one-night stand, and stroll. And you haven’t a clue, except to conclude that blogging’s queer like that.
And it is.
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Endism has endured because we live in a time when just about everybody thinks that just about everything is coming to an end. Amazon.com lists an astonishing 900 titles that begin with the phrase "The End of...," from The End of Advertising as We Know It to The End of Zionism. This endist mania began in 1989 when Francis Fukuyama published his famous essay, "The End of History?" (later published in book form as The End of History and the Last Man). Since then, authors have predicted the end of science, nature, marriage, God, and even the alphabet. And, yes, there is a book titled The End of Everything.
—wordspy.com
Endism is an easy attitude to pick up on Xanga. I’ve watched so many come and go, come and go. If all the friends I’ve known through Xanga that have been since lost from Xanga were really mortally lost, I’d likely be a man in black for the rest of my life. I think a lot of peeps who become enthralled with the thrill of blogging and having this amazing ‘virtual life’ discover that the correlate, a ‘virtual death’, is generally bloodless, painless, and oftentimes, even liberating. Perhaps, having a virtual life followed up with a virtual death helps prepare these peeps for the real thing? Allows them to see that other Death less nefariously and more as just another strange form of visiting fey hiding in the shadows down a forest path that will be strolled down someday?
But personally, I’m not looking towards ends, but new beginnings, new adventure, and some cosmic release. Oops! I meant ‘comic relief’ …with no end in sight!
Meanwhile, here’s the APWA’s Uniform Color Code that will assist you in deciphering the autumn colors spray-painted by industrious urban troll-types upon your urban concretescape:
- Red: Electric power lines, cables, conduit and lighting cables
- Yellow: Gas, oil, steam, petroleum or gaseous material
- Orange: Communication, alarm or signal lines, cables or conduit
- Blue: Water, irrigation and slurry lines
- Green: Sewers and drain lines
- Pink: Temporary survey markings
- White: Proposed excavation
- Purple: Reclaimed water
Hey, Purple Rain !!
- Red: Electric power lines, cables, conduit and lighting cables
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Attention bosses: Even monkeys seem to know the value of equal pay for equal work.
When rewarded similarly for the same task — in this case, exchanging a small rock with a scientist — capuchin monkeys worked happily for a slice of cucumber. But after they witnessed a partner getting a coveted, succulent grape for the bit of granite, the cucumber-paid monkeys took offense.
Some went on strike. Some kept halfheartedly doing the work, but refused to accept the stinkin' cucumber.
"There were none that didn't care," said Sarah Brosnan, a graduate student at Emory University in Atlanta. A description of her experiment, conducted with Emory's Frans de Waal, appears Thursday in the journal Nature.
If primates offer a window to the origin of human behavior, the findings suggest that people may be born with a strong, primal reaction to unfair rewards. The researchers even have a term for it: "inequity aversion."
—Laura Beil, "Monkeys show sense of fairness about work, rewards in experiment," Knight-Ridder, September 18, 2003
Good food for common rocks? And yet they take offense? Damn ingrates.
I'd love to get rewarded for monkeying around and getting my rocks off. But do I? oh No-o-o-o. And I have a term for it: insexity aversion. Anyone out there willing to trade a juicy cherry or flamboyant strawberry for a little chiseled granite?
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turn and shoot
It’s but early autumn
(not Fall since I’ve only seen a solitary leaf ‘fall’ all day).
Fall is a graphic,
Autumn’s a season.
(like sex is a graphic when love is the reason).
Autumn, yet there’s (incongruously) a fifty pound bag of ‘Boot Hill Sand’
cast at my feet (what feeds the desolate shore it issued from?
Its container bag of textured burlap is just a body bag
for the original wash and sort that now rests, procured, in peace).
I could be anywhere alit upon this globe,
roundabout, circumventing the abyss.
So why do I think myself plot-bound, restrained,
while I’ve a breath-filled body
and raving pulse yet? The world is
immensely explorable:
just imagine
you and I
at 50 paces
drawing
and shooting
kisses.
Whoever misses
exposes to the other’s mouth
a breast and pays with
the sweet succor
of soft flesh taken.
Either way,
we cheat fate,
beyond the chill of the night,
gunslinging us delicious. -
I can simply no longer publish my poetry here on Xanga. No, it's worse than that: I don't think I can ever write poetry again.
Good leaders lead by example. And, true enough, I've been shown by example what an apparently pitiful poet I am. How can I measure up - ever - to the following verse, penned by our brilliant commander-in-chief, and delivered with such swaying impact to the woman he loves?
Mrs. Bush revealed that President Bush had penned a poem for her when she got back from a five-day solo trip to Europe, where she attended a book festival in Moscow and visited France -- getting two kisses on the hand from French President Jacques Chirac.
"President Bush is a great leader and a husband, but I bet you didn't know he is also quite the poet," she said. "Upon returning home last night from my long trip I found a lovely poem waiting there for me."
As her husband watched quietly, she recited it.
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Oh my, lump in the bed
How I've missed you.
Bush sometimes refers to his wife as a lump in the bed.
Mrs. Bush went on:
Roses are redder
Bluer am I
Seeing you kissed
by that charming French guy.
And then the finale:
The dogs and the cat, they missed you too
Barney's still mad you dropped him, he ate your shoe
The distance, my dear, has been such a barrier
Next time you want an adventure, just land on a carrier.
My lump! Land on a carrier! Damn. The surpassing brilliance! The unimitable imagery! The Pres sure knows how to win the women...and shatter my illusion of poetic self-potential.
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I was feeling somewhat disgruntled, dejected, down, and even (but have I ever been?) depressed on my walk downtown on the way into work today. First, it’s freezing almost (
Anyway, wrestling with such self-analysis on passage down a side street, I suddenly reached an insight and blurted out: “Fuck it. I’ve got plenty of nothing!” And with that, my inner lighthouse beam relit (and how, at sight of this, I imagined, the sirening mermaids at sea did flap their fins in glee).
Then, right then (I swear), I looked up and saw this:
Oh yeah, baby.
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I’m really feeling pretty silly. Not embarrassed-silly but willy-silly like a hillbilly who likes to say ‘piccadilly’. I’m feeling pretty good. Why? Does there have to be a ‘why?’ ?
After a half-year of managing a remote access project for a governmental entity and being under the gun to achieve daily, weekly, monthly, and a total project quota, the project roll-out yesterday expired with an blowout
That’s all.
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There’s not enough of me, without you, to share.
Alone, my heart is bare and unbeatified.
Its as if I’m attempting to swallow air too rarefied
And with dizziness the darkness closes in
And the within has no way out but you.
There’s not enough of you, for me, to carve up either.
I’m well-aware of the many who need you,
How, in so many capacities, they feed, too.
But the complete mash of you has enthralled—I’m buzzed
The inner form of your delicious pith fulfills me
Because you’ve made it our special little amazing hush-hush.
And the hallowed portal (that you’ve offered, I’ve entered)
Has no return to me without you.
(So love you I do.)
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