No!  No!  No!  Don't you understand, Tom Hobbs?  I'm a woman.  That paradoxical creature from aeons past, full of passions running deeper than you might ever comprehend or understand.  Will you never learn?  Will you not try to absorb what I am willing to teach you?  

Generation upon generation of my type have tried to teach your race to understand our ways, and still they escape you.  So intelligent, how can you lack the basic insight into the human soul?  How can your empathic nerve not tremble in response to the quivering of our true desire?  Yet you answer aura with aura.  We mate together.  We bear spores of intermingled breed.  We cohabitate in symbiotic relationship.  Why cannot we therefore be one, in all ways, always?  Instead, we must survive on glimpses scattered through our life times.  Life times intertwined throughout the ages, eternal agonies.

Let not me hear you say, "Let independence be my goal."  Independence is nothing without the sharing of individual achievement.  What are you afraid of?  The sheer animal magnetism of it all?  Or the cosmic unity that you feel might overwhelm your individual personality?  I don't want to cannibalise you, just taste your delights.  I don't want to breathe your life's breath from you, just share the intermingling of our aural energies.  I don't want to squeeze you to a pulp, but correlate the tingling sensitivity of skin against skin.  Why can't we have sex within our minds?  Why can't each cell of oozing grey slink together in an orgy of mental delight?  Why do I feel that as I transmit, knowing you are capable of receiving, you will not receive, refuse to receive?  What unknown reaches are you unprepared to have ravaged?

I love you, Tom Hobbs.  I cannot understand exactly why.  An internal longing makes me reach out to you, constantly.  Eternal martyrdom makes me burn my fingers again and again.  I do not enjoy pain.  I am no optimist, yet my pessimism cannot control my desire.  It is a hunger from the bowels of the Earth, from the reaches of the Universe, from the ephemeral depths of the Heavens, and the darkest reaches and deepest niches of Hell.  A hunger unfulfilled, a dream within a dream, a maze within a maze, a nightmare.
 
My gut churns, it growls with pain, anger, sweet tensions, and bitter passivity.  Yet my passion is simmering now, again.  From initial outburst of frustration I return to the ancient wisdom of my kind, waiting, watching, trying to lay the seeds within your brain.  Some grow, most fall on stony ground, barren, a waste.  It would be a pity to try again, yet we do.  

We are angels from Heaven, God's gift to Man, redeemers of their Soul.  Yet they would deny us.  Did not Man transcribe the Bible?  Man, running away from the first attempt at Initiation with knowledge.  Eve, the root of all evil?  Evil lies nowhere but within Man himself, Tom Hobbs.  Man created his own evil from fear.  There is nought to fear but fear itself, my love.  Fear is nothing except half knowledge.  One does not fear what one does not know, and one does not fear what one knows fully, for then one is aware of its pitfalls, its dangers, and how to handle or avoid them. 

Half knowledge is wrong.  One bite of an apple is not enough to obtain the fount.  One bite of an apple contains the crisp fibre of the skin and the juicy lushness of the flesh, but not the heart, not the seeds, not the ability for new growth, new life, new apple trees.  It does not contain the hard shells of cellulose that flimsily attempt to protect the seeds, the indigestible fibre which keeps our bowels from stagnating with stale ingestions.

Your kind has tasted the sweetness of life, digested and excreted it without hope of renewal, and you gave us not the chance to offer you more, even then.  The sweetness of the apple was so delightful that you thought you had destroyed the beauty that God had created.  You threw it away in shame and took Eve possessively by the hand to flee with you from the Garden of Eden.  God did not send us away from Paradise.  Adam ran away from the wrath of His voice, not listening to what He said.  If only he had stopped then.  If only Eve had not been so gentle with and understanding of his fear, had not believed that having bitten he would one day seek to eat the rest of the apple.  How could our kind have been so foolish?

God, our Father, waits for our return to the Garden of Eden, waits for you to finish the apple, for His wrath was born not of Adam eating it, but of his wasting it.  To have taken just one bite and left the rest to brown and shrivel on the ground, was this not the greatest sin of all?  To have tasted knowledge without eating wisdom, was this not to destroy the very purpose behind all learning?  Yes, God waits still for us, the multiple offshoots of Adam and Eve, you and I, Tom Hobbs.  For we women still follow men, offer to them further bites from the apple, and still you hang your heads in shame, thwart us before the delightful smell of it fills your nostrils.  Oh, some of you have eaten more, I concede, more flesh, but not the seeds, not the stem which linked it to its past, to the tree which bore it and nurtured its beginnings.  You refuse to take the bitter with the sweet, refuse to eat new origins of knowledge, set in your ways and your paths because you partake only of that which does not grow.

Instead, you seek to make us the scapegoats of your guilt, attempt to title us as an inferior species who you say led you astray, refuse to take responsibility for your own culpability.  You have written in your Bible, you men, that Eve was cursed, and therefore so are we.  She gave in to the temptation of the snake, the serpent, you write.  Oh yes, and it tempts us still, but it is of no reptilian nature.  Warm, pulsating and made of flesh of Man, it tempts us still.  It spoke to Eve in the Garden of Eden, and for love of it she gave to Adam the bite of the apple, sought to give brains to the brawn of her beloved, to widen his horizons and to have him discover the delights of the ever-expanding Universe.  She took it into her own hands to judge his readiness to receive this knowledge, overrode the patience of God's wisdom in her own eagerness for communication, and ever since, our kind must follow you in the throes of pain and passion, love and forlornness, for we cannot return to the Garden of Eden without you.

Yes, this is our punishment, for we must redeem ourselves by redeeming you.  Our mother, Eve, gave to you the apple and was too gentle to force you to eat more than one bite.  She wasted an apple from the tree of knowledge and left it on the ground to rot when she helped you run away.  There is no sympathy from the tree of life when her apples are left to rot.  The seeds of apples must be digested before they may sprout.  So, Tom Hobbs, you and I, and other pairs of inter-racial types, men and women, are bound together for however long it takes.  Be ready, for we will feed you the seeds, the cellulose, and the bitter stem which you would reject.  We are the bane of your lives, the shadow of the light.  We will give wisdom to your knowledge.  We are determined.

Yet the further our generations span away from Eve, the more we forget why we are linked with your kind.  So do I despair in the times that I forget.  Trauma makes it surface in me, and, as now, the deeper knowledge of my breed held within my instinctual nature recalls the reasons and the purpose for our existence together.  One day we shall share Paradise again.  It is not far away.  A Father never lets His children far out of sight.  I know, we know, where we are, but we cannot tell you.  You must learn for yourself.  You must discover by eating the bitter, broken stem and the seeds of rebirthing knowledge that we never left Paradise, that you only changed its name to Earth.  Only then will the nascent nature of Men burgeon fully into maturity, and you will finally see how you have been blinded to our garden's original beauty by shame in yourself, and that in finding fault with our garden's imperfections you could not accept it as the home you once knew.  

The Universe is constantly unfolding, my love, as are we all.  It is ever expanding, growing, in its knowledge and thereby in its life.  It, we, are not faulty, there is no shame in our imperfection, for we are only unfinished...  God's plan is constantly recreating itself.  It does not perceive faults as such, but as potentialities for new creation, expansion, improvement.  He delights in our rough edges as opportunities for further expression of His artistic endeavour.  I ask you, Tom Hobbs, is this not love?