Air Supply, Love and Some Real God Shit

The function of Love is one.

Something happens and you wake underneath pouring rain and you don't hate listening to Air Supply all day long.

It is said “to love the Father is to love the Son” but in my case, to love the Son is to love the Father.

Sitting cross-legged at the writing desk, shanti rising between raindrops.

In the morning, we shared our dreams with one another. In mine, he and I were chosen to play in AC/DC's band – he on keyboards, me on guitar. In his dream, he and I were surrounded by female lions on the Mara, waiting to be eaten.

The other night, you touched me in a way that I have never been touched. I cannot prove any of it but I was once again unfastened. My body as a concept has been turned over to the One who Knows how to use it properly. In this way I accept all invitations; even yours; in and unto peace only.

And she said, “the color blue is some real God shit.”

Not martyrs now but teachers.

All of me hears the rain and all of us are soothed.

Making Love Out of Nothing at All.
All Out of Love.
Lost in Love.

It's all Love. Love. Love.