The illusion is we are only physical.
Anger is a wound gone mad.
The primary dues a writer or any artist pays is to remain sentient, and to forfeit the illusionary luxury of such anesthetics as avoidance, numbness, and denials.
Always is no Time at all.
I'm in love with the whole world.
Sex in space (Earth included) far exceeds our wildest imaginations, and is more than a big bang, that's for sure, it's cosmic.