Many little afterwaves of lust assaulted nfp like the batter of aftershocks that often follow an initial earthquake shaking. 

 

Here seated next to him was this dark-haired, dark-eyed, slender-built Rumi, in his eyes a most desirable dog-walking diva.  And he hadn’t even introduced himself yet.  *afterwave of lust and anonymous power* 

 

She was practically nuzzled up next to him like an intimate sharing an outlook.  And she was gazing down upon his laptop on his lap, and in his mind, somehow gazing through it. *afterwave of lust and fantasy desire* 

 

With every next moment, the afterdusk of sunset was growing dimmer and dimmer.  Darkness is becoming us.," mantra-ed nfp's libido.  *afterwave of lust and darkly surrender* 

 

And a sense of mortal time, a timeline for this or that, was, like with the onset of an awesome herb-infused high, receeding at near light-speed acceleration. *afterwave of lust an arrival of almost forever*

 

“Hey you.”

 

“Yes?” responded Rumi.

 

“My name is Steve.  But I’m best known as notforprophet.”

 

“Hi, Steve,” chanted Rumi in that utterly even-keeled, deep-voiced, drawn-out provocative kind of way that sexy women seem to have to make guys down deep inside go ‘mmm mmm mmm.’   “If you don’t mind that I ask, ‘notforprophet’ is quite a peculiar name.  You’re best known as ‘notforprophet’ for what ?”

 

“Blogging about the internet,"  answered nfp, his words not really synching with his lascivious thoughts.  "I’ve effectively cyber-infested the entire blogging internet with my notforprophet alias.  But the underlying truth is, I often just come here to blog-write and then I post my blogs from right here via laptop and satellite connection to my weblog.  I write, release, let go.  And then return another day to start all over again.”

 

nfp wondered if Rumi would ask him what blogging was.  Though not as common as years before, it was still not uncommon to start up a conversation about it only to learn that the other party had never heard of a blog before.

 

“So that is what you were doing when I first encountered you earlier?”  queried Rumi, seemingly relaxed with some idea of what nfp was talking about.

 

“Not quite.  Tonight, I suppose, I was wishing upon a star.  I was hoping for something more than just an average quickie blog to feed the world.  I was wishing truly to pierce the mystery of Life itself and reveal it to all, blogstruck, as the story of one day short of Forever.  And towards that end, I was prepping myself for an inspirational visit from my ever-elusive, sometimes-succubus, Muse.”

 

“Oh, you lost me there,” remarked Rumi.  “Did you mean ‘ever-illusive’?    Why would a creature desiring sex, if even only sometimes, if really genuinely goodly with inspiration, find reason to not be direct with you?”

 

“You got me.”  sloganned-off nfp in unknowing admission.

 

“Yes, I do.” whispered back Rumi, with a cryptic sort of knowingness.  And then she leaned-back and gazed at the first-appearing stars in the constellations of the post-dusk sky.  And sighed what seemed like to be a sigh for all the Ages.

 

—this is the fourth chapter of notforprophet’s ghost-written book—