A tiny puzzlebox, gilded and jammed with intricate gears and fly wheels and movements that no man can ever really fathom, stands dazzling, a noon day sun to blind eyes. How can he relate to the ocean of emotion that hides behind the desires he rides like waves? A glass bottle has no concept of depth. The whirring, buzzing fantastically complex machinata of woman is his to admire, to seize upon, to worship from far and near. No wonder the compulsion to place it on a pedestal. Cave man logic before a cosmologically infinite possibility device. We have no real hope to see, at least with eyes.

No, to serve woman, you must try to understand woman. You cannot truly learn, nor anticipate, but you must empathize. This is of utmost importance. Hope is womanhood. In all things, they have hope. All women are futurists in their heart of hearts. Know this and you begin to understand.

Consider a butterfly lotus. What practical use is this alien construction to savage Nature? Thin petals are weakness. They tax the leaves, strain the roots, represent the final great growth of a season. Flowering is a mad enterprise, but it represents a long term view. The bee thinks only of nectar, the tiny window between sun and moon, of collecting, amassing, digesting, returning, plundering, owning. The frames of time belie the gulf between their minds. The Bee-man, concerned with lapping nectar and moving on, and the Lotus-woman, dreaming of the Springs her seeds will see far in the distance. In all things, this mismatch of minds is true between man and woman. It is fundamental.

Mismatched perspectives are a boon and a plague to humanity. Men dream of soft women, never seeing the true iron behind their eyes. The million little compromises they make everyday against their dreams of tomorrow. Women dream of hard men, never seeing the desperation behind their thoughts, of the blind groping from problem to solution that leads them invariably down an unknown path. Goals shift for everyone.

Thus is born the magic of sex. Within it, boundaries are blurred wonderfully. Lines between bodies become indefinite, mingled sweat and clawing fingers, and sweet blood coursing into flushed flesh. The feathering of viewpoints is like clambering up a great mountain to consider the sea beyond, and it gives men a moments taste of the distant horizon, while in the same breath, dragging the women into the now of physical lust, thinking of only the next tiny moment. For the briefest interval, we live between Sodom and Gomorrah, in the desert, only the sand and ourselves to tear into, Lords above be damned.

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