I hover above things around here. Often I am the only one around, like when the man and his wife are at work and the children are at school sitting in their chairs, where they sometimes might forget about me. They don't forget because of any real reason. It's just that life moves along each day and the small blocks and distractions can take over, at least for the moment. But I stay here in the house and wait for the chance to rub up against a still-soft unshaven cheek, or a filled-to-the-brim head full of concerns and plans. I cushion things. I remind these people that there are big important things that we can't see or explain. But we can feel them in our hearts, and we can hold on to each other. In a stream of thought I can skim the waters of the Atlantic and wrap around the southern tip of that dark and unknown continent until I climb the eastern edge to the mysterious coastal city of Mombasa, where another smooth face waits to be kissed and longs to be remembered. I am a thick paste when I need to be, and a thin mist when I need to sneak in. I am love.