'Write me', he heard her say.
He wondered if through channeled voices he was letting her voice out.
When she was tied by conventions and constraints, he would be her voice,
God's voice, in that small echo of God
s voice, that resonated in the air since their first meeting.

He could not tell the difference between mental masturbation, and wishful thinking,
and real, meaningful words.

She just pushed him to spit out, sentence after sentence.
He was drugged by the storyline.

Two fair away friends, working, developing, the ground for the time when
a war could be fought and won on it.