The water was warm today. The seismic crashing of nearing waves is always transcended by the comforting touch of the daughters of Oceanus. Rhythmically massaging my feet, weary from today’s trek, these sea nymphs lay the gift of soft, gentle, soothing waves upon them.  The sun, slithering from its earlier peak, cast a wide net across the distant ocean waves. Painted with wide strokes of brilliant orange, narrower streaks of crimson red, splashes of yellow succumbing to the will of the horizon, I pondered while dusk cloaked itself with its familiar manly, purplish hue. The numinous bouquet of brackish, yet sweet fragrance of freshness filled my nostrils full. Many years have passed since I undertook a student. My mind danced with twirling thoughts of the emotions, desires, and devotion each had weighed. Although I remain intimate with them all, their lives are each like a distant planet within this great universe. Traveling to visit is simple enough, since there are not any barriers within the fathomless, emptiness of space. Allied with time’s mysterious, yet gracious power, their presence with me or mine with them is a simple matter. It was time now to head home and allow my mind to empty its thoughts.

Her prose captured my desire, aroused my inner being, awoke my long slumber and gifted me with a newness of purpose. A vast distance separated us, yet that is only a dimension of perception. A sense of unease did encompass my person when writing an invitation for her to join me on a mutual quest. Not sure of her motives for her prose, I comfortably surrendered after reading each story not once, but several times. Oddly I felt she was speaking to me and me alone, yet being an author I knew experience lie slightly beyond each conjoining word. I took caution while reading in a book form as each portion of each story melded, becoming one adventure.

Then the task of reading them from the first page of “????” to the final page of “XOXOXOXO” fell upon me. Realizing the tension each passage raised within me from my earlier readings, I was now perplexed. I was not sure which entity decided to haunt me with this unease, yet I knew it tasted like loneliness. Even though I was familiar with its bite, much time had passed since being fed its sharpness. My mind in a flurry of desires fought intensely with the emotions now flooding my very soul. My intent as teacher, a mentor, a fellow teller of stories dueled with allowing self to become the audience.

In the fridge was a fresh bottle of O’Connor’s Irish Creamer, on the counter a new prescription of Viagra, and yesterday I had received “The Rhythm of R and B,” from DJ Triad’s website. I truly admired how this creative woman took the sounds of love, lust, sensuality, and sex, intermingling them like an orgy of women with a man. The thought of the task of satisfying two young women was conjured each time I listened to her first work. But, today, now, I had to decide my