To feel Gods pleasure is to feel another.
Gods work made manifest through man.

Still, one can't help but want less implicit modes of connection.
Still, one can't help but want a more explicit mode of touch.


To be trapped in miles of bone, flesh, and sinew, is to be trapped in a Jungle.
A Jungle and world all its own, with oppressive heat and danger.
Wondering about the least sound of a bird screaming, or the movement of foliage,
or the predictive doom of silence.

God works in mysterious ways,   he works through us.

He works through us with patience, past pain, and resolve.
A hands off, but no holds barred event. A Roman Greco, freestyle grudge match
of the shedding of the ego, for the flowering of the soul.

This flowering of the soul detonates, missiling it through the atmosphere.
Exploding beyond that wich can be grasped, explained, and understood.
Until it reaches and erupts, into an incredible cacophony of
sound, of color, and of light, into a deafening place of beauty and silence.