She appreciated her own reflection- she looked less than a tenth of her earthly age- but knew the years were bound to catch up. There had been a time or two when she had put a glamour on herself, to reverse those years, to remember and even to capture the attention of a young man so she could make the kind of vigorous love she had enjoyed before. But she wouldn’t have tried to keep up the glamour permanently, or to create the violent kind of spells that she could have to remain in a state of perpetual youth. The crone cannot be a sage or wisewoman until she reaches beyond the shallow confines of her skin. Children of the earth must also change, like the seasons do. Autumn had seen herself in all these transitions: the tentative buds of spring; the heavy sensuality of summer. And now, like the fall, she was colorful and majestic but right on the verge of winter, to be stripped down to what was really important, the bare branches of what was true.

Amy S. Foster, When Autumn Leaves

How their first kisses were kinetic, it’s archaic wave of potentiality laminates every fiber of your being until implosion, implosion of sensuality and reason for they no longer distract or obfuscate. Cascades of flashes culminate into desire, clutching into the unseen forces that permeate us all. For this cyclical, synergistic formula propels and creates. It’s never restless at it’s core, central to everything human. The most simplistic of natural equations, the female eyes scatter awareness depicted from expressions of DNA so extreme in beauty, they cause microscopic changes, a physiological array of magnetism drawn forth, peacock like in movement and grace into the mirror of the self, Frank conveyed to Sam.

Corey Laliberte, Quantum Dawn – ‘A Journey of Human Evolutionary Paths’

“It had been startling and disappointing to me to find out that story books had been written by people, that books were not natural wonders, coming up of themselves like grass. Yet regardless of where they come from, I cannot remember a time when I was not in love with them — with the books themselves, cover and binding and the paper they were printed on, with their smell and their weight and with their possession in my arms, captured and carried off to myself. Still illiterate, I was ready for them, committed to all the reading I could give them …” 

― Eudora Welty, One Writer’s Beginnings

“What is the fatal charm of Italy?
What do we find there that can be found nowhere else?
I believe it is a certain permission to be human, which other places, other countries, lost long ago.”– Erica Jong, writer