I summon myself on the wizard’s threshold. I bring blessings: blessed be the virgin, blessed be the child, blessed be the man who loves so much that he can’t tell the difference anymore, blessed be the woman who loves so much that she can’t tell the difference anymore. And yet. Meanwhile, I sound like a Catholic. Blessed be the cat. Blessed be the mat. I sound like a structuralist. Saussure went bonkers from reading signs. It is not the sign that keeps us sane, but feeling. Painted with cosmic vibration. The color is yellow and white, white and yellow. The white makes room for red. “There is a Text in women,” Alexander Niccholes writes in 1615. Paradise Regained was also written in 1600s. “I see thou know’st what is of use to know.” Hold on to that. Hold on to the text. Hold on to the books. A whole library of touches. Real touches. Sublime touches. Painful touches. Readable touches. In The Book of Touches it is written: I shall not let you dangle in the air, but bless you. I shall not let you suffer alone, but bless you. I shall not let you love in silence, but bless you.