We are the ancestors of those gardening the universe.
Your mouth on mine our bridge to cross and serve where we would go. Utopia of sensations the flesh could never know.
People who worship only themselves get a slick, polished look - like monuments. Too bad they had to go so soon.
The stars are not the limit.
Any literature, when it arrives at being good literature, transcends genre.
The body knows no pain, not like the soul. At least a nerve has limits, a body part a name. But the soul... the soul... There is no bandage - even crying is in vain.