She rises in awe wrapped in the ascendent force of man. She drinks his fire more potent than any other. Quenched but not, she blows wind, then water for dust and fire will be completed yet. We are still more vast than any dustswept past, more cursed than all this torrid blood washing down the centuries. Further blessed than the tender or devouring kiss of this immaculate perpetual embrace. And my love, always we are that bit of faith we worship. Always we are what we choose to firmly au courant.