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Expelled from their natal gardens, the lovers take refuge in the desultory enclaves of the earth. These are the lands that their footsteps have crossed, hiding from rain and the judgement of men. These are the alcoves where they have hidden their bodies. The cars that held them uncomfortably in their overflowing. Lost motels and grasslands under freeways. They no longer need the paradises of the gods. A forest, a bedroom, an alley suffices. They wander in exile together, homesick for a world with judgement, before guilt and knowledge, before the gods, before the naming and dividing of things. Their love and their labor must now transform each place into a home. Their philosophy is a nostalgia for the inifinite: the feeling of being at home everywhere.

In cars while the rain strokes the windshield. Underneath the falling pine needles. On the street, In cars while the rain strokes the windshield Underneath the falling pine needles. On the street, at night, or at dawn. Waking up from drunkeness. In bed. Among the garbage and the flowers. In the red rock. Between the shadow and the sunlight as it hits the sand. In back of the store. When the waves hit their feet. On the porch. In a state of insomnia. In a half-dream. At the park. On the bridge. On the last day of school. In the abandonded motel. Beneath the pelicans. Undercovers. While watching a movie. Reading. In front of others. Beside the skyscrapers. While bored. At the red bar. While running through deserts. In between bites. Underwater. In the shower. On the roof. At the window. Upstairs. In the basement. When the rain falls. In lost places. In gardens. Next to the mosque. With closed eyes. Next to friends. In the cafe. After a fight. In San Fransisco. Before the rain. On the moutain. Randomly. When tired. On a walk along the cliff's edge. Before taking off clothes.