(Hello, is this thing still on?)
What does he want, you may ask, my dear? What could he want, other than to borrow an inch of your infinite light, and to repay with interest, of course —to repose for a moment under your eternal shine.
Your love light, your life light, what else — he wants to feel the pulse of your pleasure — to rejoice in the melody of your ecstasy — to swim in the currents of your swoon.
But, enough, don’t let them hear you — it’s all too shameful, isn’t it? The highest resonances of living are morally wrong — are they not? Maybe what is wrong is that we speak of them, and not their quiet, private enjoyment. What do you think, dear?
Shh — don’t let the mob occupy such premium space rent free in your soul, the kernel of your affirmation of life. The dumb, dirty, spiritually destitute mob — what do they know? What do they want? And what have they to give that they haven’t taken already? — They have the polis, and they should be happy with it. The spirit is your own… claim it and defend it to the death, dear. I will be there with you on the frontline and the strategy room.
Your spirit is the house of God.
And God knows better than the mob.