And as for the budding-out of being we’d called passion? or the sensual moments phrased into our gait when we were coming to feel something, when our shadows merged (not as romance, but the real consequence of our mutuality) with shadows of conifers along the steep ravine, and completely naked and without relief, the world parsed us into the inhuman where rosette lichen surged across rocks lacking nothing that might be needed to answer for our existence?
