You are mistaken. I am not your North Star, consistently waiting and redundantly home; stagnantly eking boiled potatoes and salted herring, and all things hearth and home.   This latitude points me to terrestrial delights and a container of carnal confections. Plying into my fleshy grove of histories, complex and heady, rising, mounting, and liberating; You rewrite my testament.   We desecrate hallowed sheets when you a...