"Lovers", Edvard Munch (1863 - 1944), Norwegian A trail of hair from his primal separation-wound towards the sleeping god. My hand walks the path. The sleeper awakens to greet my fingers; gently, I touch him. His diaphragm moves, the apple in his throat swallows saliva. His eyes closed, his head turned to the right side, as if seeking to escape the assault of sensations. My lover, so yielding to my touch, to the sensation, so sensitive, so tender, resists his body. The god is awake and so is...

This article was written exclusively for The Geist magazine's final publication. I am posting it here in full - found it fitting for the...

I died in the Beauty’s embrace.