altruis W.C. A page--white desert empty and alone--or the clay--dry withering formless stone--starts the mind a writhing in delight. Undeath resides within her countenance; she offers salvation with deft strokes. She shall ensure there will be no more sea-like sand of empty pulp or canvass. She makes a land upon that empty desert. She bulds a city of that lonely clay. Now there lay a face or forest, where once was only bleak. She shares her wit, her talent. We love her work. We swim, sing and we caress that which we ourselves can never birth. We fly, we weep and we taste. She charms us with her gift of the creator--rare. With gooseflesh and our breath bated we watch while she toils. She gives herself to us as a lover. We accept her and place her within our bosom for a time. We delight in the company of the gift she offers. She has given us the only child she can bear, and she loves us as she might the father of her daughter. We carry with us her daughter, but we forsake the mother. Then we starve the child. When she is gone, we simply move on. For her sake, damn us. 070206 what's it to you? who go blather from