The ear-bone's connected to the clit-bone and the ....

Earlier this week Marie visited me for a couple of days. Like last time, she visited mid-week. (She works in retail so Tuesday and Wednesday are her weekend.) She cooked dinner for me two nights, which was a luxury. (Although she also broke my cut-glass butter dish. Oh well.) And we talked a fair bit when I was home from work. As always. But the biggest drama was in bed.

Marie no longer laughs her way through each orgasm. So I assume her laughter burbled up out of astonishment and relief after decades of believing herself incurably anorgasmic. And, like my uncontrollable laughter during my Second Date with D, she may have felt partly "Oh my God, this is really happening!" Anyway, her vocalizations are no longer restricted to laughter. But they are loud and gratifying all the same.

Marie's clitoris is neither large nor prominent, and it has a tendency to recede into the surrounding flesh. If I didn't know what I was feeling for, I could easily lose it. Could this explain part of her chronic anorgasmia and sexual dissatisfaction before now -- that her lovers were perhaps inexperienced and therefore clumsy? She tells me that -- before me -- she hadn't had sex in twenty years. That would have put her in her early thirties at the oldest. It wouldn't surprise me to learn that her other lovers were inexpert at their job, though she assures me they were always kind and gracious and considerate.

In any event, her appetite for sex these days is almost adolescent in its intensity. The night she arrived she warned me that she didn't want to do much more than cuddle: she had had a trying week at work and disturbing results from her most recent mammogram, so her libido (she went on) had flown straight out the window. Fair enough. Her flight got in about 11 o'clock at night. I met her at the airport, we drove to my apartment, I held her for a few minutes, and we went to bed. By that time she was already wet and fully aroused. So yes, we made love after all.

Marie never seems to tire of stimulation, of my giving her one more orgasm. Wife used to stop me pretty quickly because she said she got too sensitive after the first one and it hurt. Debbie got sensitive too, although she was more ready than Wife for a repeat. Even D would -- occasionally and after a while -- push my hand away and turn to kissing. Marie will pull me up to kiss her, if my attention has been too exclusively on her vulva. But if, as we kiss, my hand traces its way back down again, she's always willing. At one point she even told me, "I get to where I feel like I really need a breather; but then ... well, you start to distract me again and I forget all about it."

But what seems to have surprised her the most was the fantastic interconnectedness of her responses. I suckled her ear, running my tongue behind it and into all the little whorls; she came. Then it was her neck; then her shoulder. (She didn't come when I suckled her shoulder, but she enjoyed it.) Later on I suckled her toes, running my tongue between them intently. And she responded again. She was on a roll, and it didn't take much to push her from one peak to the next.

Later she told me about a book she had read, where the woman cuts her toe and the man has to bandage it; so to clean the toe first he licks it, and the woman "feels it between her legs." Marie said she had always scoffed at that line as impossible. But she's not scoffing any more.

By the end of Marie's visit the sheets were a bloody mess. Marie was puzzled: she was sure she had reached menopause by now ... hadn't she? I told her not to worry. I didn't add that the same thing happened to D when we first started fucking, though she too was sure she had hit menopause. It must have been a last hurrah by all the parts of her reproductive system: out of work, past their time, but called into action for one last glorious orgy. Not to drift gently into that dark night, but by God to go down fucking. As they should.

We didn't discuss her mammogram a lot, nor some other things that had been on her mind and that she e-mailed me about soon after. But it was a good visit.

Elly at home

This story continues from the post “Hil at home”.

 

Two days later, after more meetings plus an afternoon of beer with former colleagues (and dinner with a new one), I left Germany. But instead of flying directly home to America, I stopped over in the UK to visit Elly. Now Elly and I were never romantically involved either. Twenty years ago we were colleagues, at another company. Then for a while I worked for her. Elly is sweet and not terribly aggressive, but she’s smart and systematic. These days she works as a technical writer; but back when I worked for her there were a hundred others who did as well and she managed annual budgets near a million dollars. A few years ago I started e-mailing her again, and these days (she says) she and I write each other more often – and at greater length – than she and any other ex-colleague from that company. (For many years it was a small startup, so on the whole we were a very close bunch. That’s where I met Debbie too, come to that.)

 

I said we were never romantically involved. But in fairness I have to add that there was a time – recently, I mean, while we have been e-mailing – when I was trying to flirt with her. The flirting was subtle, so that I could always deny it; but my idea was to see if I could nudge her in a physical direction. I never really wanted an emotional relationship with her; besides that she lives on the wrong side of the Atlantic Ocean, so the whole exercise was always kind of theoretical. But back when I worked for her there were certainly plenty of nights when I whacked off to thoughts of her, and for a couple of years now (before Marie came back on the scene) I’ve been without somebody. So it was a private game – and as I say. I never said anything to her that couldn’t have been taken innocently – but there’s no question that I entertained a couple of lascivious fantasies in the back of my head.

 

At the same time, it was always really clear to me that they were fantasies. I was trying to nudge her in a physical direction, at least in her mind, but she remained resolutely un-nudged. This is in contrast to (for example) Marie, who proved remarkably easy to nudge. I assume Elly never noticed that I was trying to nudge her; in any event she never showed the slightest indication that she had noticed. My two-sided comments just went sailing past her.

 

Still, we hadn’t seen each other in something like 15 years, and here the company was prepared to send me as far as Germany – clear across that Atlantic Ocean. So why shouldn’t I stop and visit?

 

Actually I had thought of that originally a year ago, when I had another trip to Germany to make. But there wasn’t time to make the plans and she had other things going on. Then I was supposed to go in the fall, let her know, she made time in her schedule … and the trip was cancelled for budgetary reasons. So with this trip – thirteen months since I first floated the idea – she made sure to clear her schedule. Even though I was arriving the weekend of Mother’s Day (that’s in March in the UK) she arranged for her ex to have the kids so she could spend the day with me. It was flattering.

 

Elly met me at the airport. Middle age doesn’t make any of us look better – the skin around her face sags today and she has a pot belly – but it was clearly her and she was in a good humor. “Gosh, Hosea, you sound so American – haven’t you lost that accent yet?” We made our way to the airport hotel where I had reserved a room, left all my luggage there, and then found her car. In all our pre-visit discussions we never quite figured out “What should we do with the time?” so she drove me back to her place. And as we were leaving the airport and about to merge onto the highway, we were rear-ended.

 

It was a low-velocity impact; probably neither of us was going over 30-40 miles per hour. And we were traveling the same direction. But it was a real jolt, and Elly had to get out to exchange insurance information with the other driver. Our conversation was a lot more subdued after that, until we got to her house. Then she went into the bathroom to throw up. She came out and offered to make me some coffee, but was clearly jittery. “Elly, it’s OK. You can relax now.” I touched her shoulder. “I think I need a hug.” “I think you do.” And so I held her for a couple of minutes.

 

It didn’t get any steamier than that. In fact, that was probably the tenderest moment of the visit. But it was good. After that she called her insurance company. Then we walked to a local pub for a late lunch and a beer. We talked about our kids, our divorces, and the coworkers we used to share – who’s doing what now, who’s still in touch, who’s disappeared. We took a long walk through her neighborhood on the way back, still talking. A few hours later we drove to dinner, and then she sent me in a taxi back to the airport – not wanting to risk that particular drive again the same day. I gave her a kiss on the way out the door, but demurely on her cheek. I texted her when I got to the airport, and she texted back that she had had a wonderful day.

 

I’ve said nothing about her house, but in fairness I have to. When I talked about Hil, I suggested that the state of your living space is a mirror of sorts, that it says something about the people who live there. Elly has primary custody of her two children – an autistic son and a daugher, aged (I think) 16 and 14 respectively. So it’s not just her who lives there. And – unlike Hil – she didn’t know we were goi ng to end up at her place. But it was even more cluttered than Hil’s house. The dining table was covered with papers, old dishes, and empty (but unwashed) food containers. The sofa had things all over it: some were papers, some were in bags, … I don’t remember what all was there. The counters of the kitchen were covered with dirty dishes. I don’t know quite what I expected, but that wasn’t it.

 

Some of my expectations were met. As in Hil’s house, there weren’t a lot of books: I’m fond of Elly and can fantasize about her sexually, but she’s no intellectual. She’s even smart, but she doesn’t live in her mind and her ideas, the way I do. That’s part of why I can imagine sex with her but never an emotional commitment – we don’t speak the same language. We don’t live in the same world. In the longest run we would always focus on different things. And so we can be friends – even good friends – but never real friends, not in the deepest sense.

 

There were movies – Elly likes movies. Tellingly, her taste is more like that of Son 1 and Son 2 than it is like mine: she likes James Bond and Star Wars – adventure movies – but doesn’t have much interest in art house movies. I recommended “Brooklyn” to her months ago, but she hasn’t seen it yet. “Carol” or “The Danish Girl”? I didn’t bother to ask. (Now actually I like Star Wars too; but I’m at best tepid on James Bond.)

 

Elly had cupboards full of nice dishes. I didn’t see anything similar at Hil’s place, though it’s possible she kept them elsewhere. But then, I would have expected Elly to like nice things. She also had alcohol: bottles of wine sitting out, cordials, gin in the cupboard. Beer.

 

But the dirty dishes with old food scraps? I don’t know what to make of those. Elly recently took a new job, one that is demanding crazy long hours from her. And she is a single mother. But her job, for all that it is demanding, is at nothing like the level she where used to work. She dresses more sloppily than she used to. I wonder if she has given up, … or is starting to give up?

 

Sometimes I wonder the same thing about myself, especially when I think about my career. I don’t dress like an executive – even an executive wearing casual clothes. And the barenness of my apartment cannot look any snappier than the clutter of Hil’s house or Elly’s.

 

But maybe I can make a point of doing the dishes a little more regularly.

 

 

Hil at home

I’m on my way home from a business trip to Germany, during which I was able to visit two friends at home.

 

The purpose of the trip was to attend a workshop for all the people in my division who do the kind of work I do. (You remember I work for a big company.) Hil put on the workshop, which means she was mostly pretty busy during the whole week. But Thursday night she invited six of us to her house for dinner. “The last years we worked together very often and very close and for me our relation changed from ‘just’ colleagues to friends. It is great to have you here in ---- this week and I thought it might be a great chance to invite you to my home, sitting together and enjoying the time.

For this reason I would like to invite you for Thursday evening – after we finished the workshop - for a small dinner at my house.”

 

You remember that my friendship with Hil has never been romantic, and clearly there couldn’t be anything romantic about an invitation to six people. But it was kind and personal. Everybody says invitations like this don’t come easily in Germany. So naturally I was happy to accept.

 

Is a home a self-portrait? In some ways yes. Unless you live alone, your home won’t reflect you exactly; but surely it reflects the collective personality of your family or housemates, of the corporate entity that lives there. My apartment, for example, is very spare: there’s a dining table and a bed but no other furniture; bookshelves and art, but no other artifacts. And this somehow fits with my living so much in my head rather than in the tangible world – except for food and sleep, food and sex. On the other hand the house I shared with Wife was chronically cluttered and usually dirty: dominated by Wife’s obsessive need to hold onto things (heirlooms, artifacts, memories, grudges), by her depression and indolence, and by my resentment of her expectation that the rest of us lived to serve her.

 

Hil’s house is very cluttered. She explained that “In Germany we don’t have family rooms, so we put those things in the living room instead”: this would explain, I suppose, the exercise machine and large television in the living room. And she has two little girls, aged seven and nice. (She is divorced from their father; and while she has a boyfriend, he has his own house down the street.) Does all this explain that there were no empty level surfaces except the dining table? Maybe that’s just the clutter that comes of single motherhood, plus Hil’s busy worldwide travel schedule. There were bookshelves but not a lot of books – not real books, anyway, except for a huge number of glossy coffee-table books about ancient Egypt and the secrets of the Pharaohs. Somebody in the family really loves this one subject, but nobody in the family is an all-around intellectual. There were a lot of Disney princesses, and a lot of family photographs. Hil clearly dotes on her two girls. I already knew this from the way she talks about them every time we work together, so I wasn’t surprised to find it in her house.

 

How often does Hil entertain? Maybe not a lot. She sat us all down at the dining room table, and offered us drinks: apple juice, water, or non-alcoholic beer. It sounded like she keeps no alcohol in the house. Then she left us to go work in the kitchen making pizzas, until the time she could put them in the oven and join us: this meant we were on our own for – what was it? – half an hour? More? I remember when my father used to make pizza at home for guests, and he always invited everyone into the kitchen to talk and socialize as he worked. Not Hil. To be fair, her kitchen isn’t large so there’s not much space for company. But it felt a little awkward to be left to our own devices for so long, especially as we didn’t all know each other. We’re all in the same line of work, but what we have in common is Hil. And we didn’t even have any alcohol as a social lubricant ….

 

Even when the pizzas were ready it felt a little awkward at first: she made three pizzas but they were done at different times, so we each took a slice of each pizza in turn, a little self-consciously, rather as if we were following a schedule. By this time Hil was with us, though, and the conversation picked up somewhat. But then, somewhere between the second and third pizzas, it all began to click into place. The magic of sharing food began to do its work; we told stories, we laughed, we melted together as a single party rather than just a group of people who all know Hil. By the time we were done and going back to our hotels it was late and nobody was ready to leave. It was fun. In the end, it was fun.

 

I continue this story in the post “Elly at home”.

 

 

Phone sex

In all my 54 years I've never had phone sex -- until this week. I was travelling for a few days, which meant spending Tuesday night through this morning in a hotel. Marie's work schedule has her off work Tuesdays and Wednesdays. So I offered to call her Wednesday morning ... maybe we could talk for a bit.

In an e-mail some weeks ago, Marie had broached the idea of phone sex, because she finds herself getting wet at the sound of my voice. At the time I hadn't replied with much conviction either way. But I remembered her idea in the back of my head.

So she called me about 7:00 Wednesday morning. At first we had reception problems. She moved out to her living room because the connection had dropped in her bedroom ... which meant she had to put on a sundress in a hurry. This told me she had started out naked in her bedroom, which means she was thinking the same thing I was. But then she worked her way back into her bedroom and the connection held.

For a long time we talked about this and that; nothing terribly sexual, but just talking. It almost seemed like we had both forgotten the idea of trying sex this way, or given up on it. And that conversation was fine too.

And then I started musing, "Gosh, it would be so nice if you were here ...."

If you were here lying beside me I could kiss you. I could stroke your face and run my fingers through your hair. Then after a while I might nibble your earlobes just a bit ... and maybe run my tongue up and down the ridges of your ears. I could kiss the front of your neck with my lips and tongue while stroking the back of your neck with my fingers.

And then I think I'd run my fingers softly over your shoulders. I'd run down your arms, pausing at the soft skin on the insides of your elbows. You know, skin like that is very sensitive and it gets ticklish easily ... so I'd rub it just firmly enough not to tickle, but still softly enough that you knew it was a caress. I'd stroke the rest of the way down your arms to your hands, hold them, and feel each finger. Then I'd work my way back up to your underarms, and caress them in the same way -- just firmly enough not to tickle, but so that you still new it was a caress.

From there I'd run my hands gently across your breasts. Oh, it looks like your nipples are standing up, so I'd kiss them ... lick them, suckle them, maybe even bite them gently. While I was kissing one, I'd trace my finger around the other -- around and around, pinching gently and then caressing the rest of your breast.

From your breasts I'd let my hands drift across your stomach and down to your sides. I'd rub your hips and feel the soft hair on your legs, caressing the outsides all the way down to your knees. I'd caress the backs of your knees, again taking care to be just firm enough that I didn't tickle; and then stroke your calves down to your feet. I'd nuzzle your feet for a while: rubbing the soles, kissing each toe, and running my fingers gently between your toes. I might even suckle your toes briefly.

From your feet, I'd start back up on the insides of your calves, ... your knees ... your thighs. When I got all the way up, I'd run my fingers up and down the very outside of your vulva for a little while, and the same time that my other hand rubbed across your pubic mound through your pubic hair ... pushing down just a bit so you could feel the pressure. After a minute or two, I'd start peeling back the petals of your labia, one at a time, until I could dip my finger in to tell if you were wet yet or not.

At various points throughout this description, Marie had murmured "Oh my!" or "Oh yes!" When I got to this point she confirmed, "I'm very wet." I went on.

From there, what I think I would do -- by the way, this is kind of like "Sesame Street", you're invited to sing along at home! -- is to insert one finger inside you and let it slide in and out for just a minute or two. My middle finger. Then after a minute I could curl either my index finger or my thumb, depending on the angle, so that it could caress your clit. I'd do this gently at first ... and then do a little more ... and then more ... and more ... and more. More. More. 

And then the laughter started. Like before, it began to bubble through the phone, incoherently, uncontrollably, ecstatically, ... on and on. All the while I murmured in her ear "Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes!" And she laughed and laughed and laughed.

When she was quite done she asked about me. She didn't have a story line to tell me, so I just described as closely as I could everything that I felt and experienced as I masturbated. It didn't take as long, because I was more businesslike handling myself than I had been with her. But it was still very nice. And then we wound up the phone call.

Later that day I got an e-mail from her that ran, in part:

It's a very good thing we don't have Skype, because I would certainly have abused it this a.m. if it had been available. It's quite a shame that you missed the visuals, however, as you would certainly have enjoyed them -- the squirming, the wild thrashing, the drumming of the heels. It occurs to me that you are still stuck in your hotel tomorrow morning; and that while it's a normal workday for me, I'm not scheduled until 11am. I had been planning to go to the pool again, but it seems to me that if I want to get wet, exercise my cardiovascular system and lungs, and give my lower body a good workout, there are more pleasurable means of doing so than the stationary bike. Besides, we are both good enough scientists to know that only reproducible results count.... As in, "Please sir, I want some more!" Might you be amenable to another 7am call?

I was. We had another phone call Thursday morning, just as agreeably.

Friday -- today -- we had to stop. I had to leave my hotel early and Marie found that she was waking up so early in anticipation of our calls that she wasn't getting enough sleep at night. But when she wrote me Thursday evening to say so, she did add one other comment about that morning's call.

I should possibly mention, too, that scheduled calls should have ... well, built in time on my side at least for ... um .. recovery. For now at least. If you hadn't taken care of me this morning, I would have had to take care of myself! And you're more fun ....

Really? My voice has enough of an effect that she has to masturbate after talking with me on the phone? Wow ... who knew?

I'll blush quietly now, as I sign off for the evening.
    
    

Asynchronous reporting

It looks like I haven't been writing a lot lately, but that's not really true. What's true is that most of my writing has been e-mails and text messages to Marie.

The only way I'll ever be able to catch up the story is to start posting those here, or excerpts from them. And the only way to keep the chronology straight is to post them as of the time they were really written, not as of the time I get around to pasting them into this blog.

That means going back in time and posting things in the past. If anybody is actually following this blog at this point -- which I suspect nobody is -- there's a risk you could find it confusing. You'll log in today and see seven posts in January plus one (this one) in February; later you'll come back and if you only look at what has a date later than this one you might see nothing new ... even if a bunch more posts have been added in January.

So consider this a WARNING: when writing about Marie and my developing relationship with her, I will not restrict myself to posting in current time. You may have to back up. I won't give anything a date earlier than November 28, 2015, so you won't have that far back to go. If I remember, I'll add a note explaining what day I actually posted something.

In fact, the next post I write after this will be dated a week ago. So please don't be confused.

This has been a public service announcement from your blog management .... 
 

Laughing

Marie just left to fly back home. She was here for three nights visiting. I had no available vacation just now, so I was at work during the day and nights were really all we had. It was enough.

Marie had a lot of worries before making the trip, though they were overcome by her desire to see me. Probably her biggest worry was that she would be incapable of orgasm: for decades she has described herself as frigid, ... as permanently anorgasmic. But then I had also explained that my own body is slowing down. She worried that she wouldn't lubricate, and that we would have to buy a commercial lube. She had tried using a Japanese eggplant as a sex toy and found it was painful because it was too large -- it had been twenty years since the last time she'd had sex, and so her cunt wasn't well-stretched.

She needn't have worried.

Yes, it's true that it was difficult for me to slide inside her ... more so because I didn't get very hard. Also her thighs didn't spread apart very wide or very easily (probably from lack of practice) and she has gotten quite fat in the decades since I saw her last -- another reason the mechanics were awkward. Of course, Wife used to be quite fat, so I didn't hold it against Marie. But the mechanics of actually fucking were awkward.

On the other hand, she lubricated beautifully. Copiously. Easily.

And the "frigidity"? Well, Marie was prepared for the prospect that she wouldn't come. She was ready simply to enjoy whatever she enjoyed and leave it at that. So we kissed; and we caressed. She spent some time kissing and fondling my penis, appreciating the texture and the weight. I licked her ears, kissed her neck, suckled her breasts, pinched her nipples, and then worked my way slowly down her front. I kissed and licked -- slowly at first. I inserted a couple of fingers and curled them up to massage her G-spot. Then I kissed and licked a little more intensely ... and a little more ... and more. I rubbed her inside and out ever faster and with ever more urgency. She breathed heavily, mumbled and moaned appreciatively, rocked her hips a little ...

And then laughed.

And laughed.

And laughed.

The laughter came tumbling out, unstoppably, in waves. It sounded like she was trying to talk over the laughing, but soon I realized it was nothing coherent ... just jumbles of random consonants sprinkled here and there among the laughter. The laughter which flowed out of her, on ... and on ... and on ...

And on!

Finally she had to stop. She waved at me, a little vaguely, please to stop and to come up to kiss her, to hold her. So I did.

We held each other for a while and then maybe we did something else before finally drifting off to sleep.

The next evening, when I got home from work, we were talking for a while. I brought up the previous night a little gingerly, in case she was self-conscious about it, so that I could tell her, "I don't know what it felt like from your side; but from my end, ... if you can't come you sure do a hell of a good imitation." Marie laughed -- a more conversational laugh this time -- and replied, "So maybe I should take the word can't out of my vocabulary? I've been thinking today perhaps I should replace it with the word multi-orgasmic." And she laughed again.

That night was much the same, except she tumbled into her orgasmic laughter a lot sooner. I guess practice makes perfect.

She has stopped talking about frigidity. She has stopped talking about being sexually damaged or inadequate. She smiles and laughs a lot more these days. She's a lot happier.

It was a good visit. I'm glad.


NOTE: I found myself wondering ... why laughter? At first I thought perhaps she felt some kind of anxiety about what was going on, sort of like the one and only time I've been afflicted with uncontrollable laughter in bed, which I described ... oh wait, I guess I haven't. (Just checked.) It was one of the times I was fucking D during the extraordinary "Second date" -- I think probably this time here. And it was because all of a sudden I realized, "My God this is really happening." Somehow our First Date hadn't registered with me the same way, possibly because it was all so new. But with our Second Date I suddenly realized, "I'm in bed naked with a woman who is not my wife. Wife doesn't know about it and hasn't given permission. I am sneaking around behind her back to do this. So this is an honest-to-God affair, and it is really happening, and it has become a real thing. And we are about to start fucking in just a minute ...." And I started to laugh. I laughed uncontrollably for a few minutes before I could go on. All because the whole thing had become too big for me, all at once. But when I asked Marie she said it felt to her more like relief ... after all the stories she had told herself for so many decades about her sexual incapacity, after all the misery she had inflicted on herself with these beliefs, to be past all that was the greatest relief ever.

Also I googled "laughing during orgasm" and found that it's not all that uncommon. Anyway, it's all good.


[Posted on Friday, February 19, 2016.]

Icarus

I wondered how long it would take me before I wrote Marie a sonnet. This one took an hour and a half over lunch today. (Well, then a few hours later I came back to make some minor improvements to the scansion and in a couple other spots.)

You have to realize that in a way it's really cheeky of me to send Marie a sonnet. When we were in college she knew far more about poetry than I did and read a lot of it. She also wrote. Time and again she would give me a piece by one of her favorite feminist poets -- or by herself -- and I would flounder around helplessly not understanding it. As a side note, none of these poems ever rhymed, and none was in iambic pentameter. Not that that's a bad thing.

The images came to me because the tug between safety and risk is a big deal for Marie: it is a big part of how she understand her life. She said that when she first heard from me last fall she strongly considered not writing back, because she felt that engaging with me again would be emotionally unsafe. The course of prudence was clearly to keep silent. But then she reflected that she had been taking the safe course of action for several years by now, and all it had bought her was safety ... and stasis. Maybe it was time to risk something, ... just a bit.

Anyway, I thought about that for a while and decided to put it like this:

You know the fate of Icarus too well:

Those wings his father made, that let him go

Too near the sun. Wax melted. And he fell,

Smashing his body on the rocks below.

 

For safety you should live life on the ground:

A house, a yard, some money set aside,

With walls and fences built up all around –

A fine and private place where you can hide.

 

And yet you’ve met me on this precipice.

Our wings are stoutly made and bound with tar.

It’s sudden death if we but step amiss.

To skulk back down is safer, sure, by far.

 

But look, my love, and see the boundless sky.

Come take my hand – and leap! – and let us fly.