The arc of her back cascades into time. My hands have slid along it and disappeared into another universe. It is the energy of creation itself. It flows from her heart to her womb. When I view the line of her body from afar, I want to cry. Trilliums, camellias, wood tits, creepers, ochre muds and dusty emeralds, wind chimes, music, vanilla, olive oil, honey, the curvature of the earth and space, the light of a millions suns, a million galaxies, the agonizing fragility of life…all of this rushes at me like a mad cacophony, a symphony of creation, and I am left breathless and helpless. I have to touch this, have to hold this for a fleeting moment in the vast cold unknown of all time. I am Pizarro. I am Cortez. I’ve seen the gold and I want to hoard it, to make it all my own, to carry it with me until death separates me from it. I will kill for it and carry it across the earth. Her back is what civilizations have been built, flourished and perished for. It is the gathering place of the tears of men. It holds my beating heart in the vessel of its gentle slope.