The Preface Before the beginning, there was an inhale. An oh so inadequate sound, this gasp, this herald, this whispered trumpet, this wisp of waking: Love. Too large to hold within one skin, even God’s. Love came before the word. It was the intent and source of the doing. It formed the thought, the why. Shaped the lips and tongue. Animated the hands. Became the gesture of breathing, both quick and slow. Love is the Preface. The Context. The Canvas on which paint transcends. The memory before the motion, written on the body. The smooth and clean paper-thin skin I fill with my oh so inadequate words.