I died in the Beauty’s embrace.

As the red hair falls down upon the floor beneath me, I offer them as a sacrifice to the Soil, to the Heritage of the Prophets, to the Hand.

Venus at her toilette, Renoir's voluptuous bathers who merge into a singular existence with the dreamlike landscapes, Diana Bathing.

Love has sung the funeral hymns to our sorrowful Romance. And Love has sung the wedding hymns to our Eternal Union.