Cubed.

Eating flowers and singing the sails of my steadfast love, we lift each realized soul to reality of that which we cannot see but must not seethe. Oh Consciousness that catapults our cavalier childhood into that pure point of passion, I am under your purview. Here I herald the happiest happenstances your gift to me and I cannot go there from here without paying homage to my homestead. My holy. Hallowed. When this day does not recognize yesterday's aches, how can we prevent incapacitating guilt from simultaneously loving now and knowing lows, the blows of my mightiest blight? Hatching seeds in the thatch of selfishness is thwarting your business. Its like my busyness is the hitch despondence adheres to and ad hocs that ruse of ruckus, muck and lew doings.

But I know it now and bow down my disobedient discord. You pick up the eyes and set them east, like the star in the east. Wise woman and man making the lightening, an electrifying connection between Provider and provided. How great can you be when you are the Gift, the Giver and the reality of that Giving? I cannot even fathom what such complexity means to me or me to them. It isn't a mistake of semantics that me is in them. But look at that - its reversed, as if I must invert the conceptions I have previously understood. What comes first? The reward for giving or the act?

When you are to the third power on such profundity, your significance is unmatchable.