**** 
   “Does it speak?"
   The noble looked up in surprise.
   "Does it feel?"
   He resisted the impulse to reply with his own myriad of questions. As the creature clearly was discussing him, even if addressing itself to another, he replied. "I assure you, sir, that I both speak and feel."
   The creature, for Flores still had reservations on whether it was a true child of Vensor or not, made no sign that it had heard him.
   "How does it survive without roots? Why does it breathe without the possibility of loving the divine?” It broke its glance and gazed skyward. "A mote lost in the cosmos, without place or belonging. Why does it bother to struggle?"
   "You speak as if I were an insect, sir. I not only speak and feel but have a soul as well."
   "Soul-as-well... Yes, without belonging invention is essential... Without love, true life is impossible. Does it love? How can it without roots, without skin to touch the divine? Does the Without know it is Without?"
   "Skin? Of course I possess skin. My clothing hides it."
   "Soul-as-well has 'clothing.' Hides its love. Hides its skin. 'Without' invents 'withs' to fill its emptiness."
   A shadow passed swiftly across them. The sighing rose, ecstasy and passion imbuing every voice. Flores noticed several male members grow in response. The moonglow returned and the eyes refocused on Flores.
   "Soul-as-well has no sustenance, fails in its duty, knows not its place. How can it come to know itself—to know Love—if it wanders lost like the wind."
   Flores raised his eyebrows. "I admit that I may not know my place, and even that I don't know myself as well as I would like, but I assure you that insofar as I know my duty, I have always striven to perform it.”
   "'Eye' admit—'eye' know—'eye' assure 'U'....” The man—which Flores now was forced to admit he was—returned Flores' puzzled stare. "Soul-as-well tears out eyes, splits organs from Loving, splits mind from SingSong. From pain, lack of place, lack of belonging, not touching the divine. Soul-as-well knows not why it breathes, why it waits. Even grubs in the soil know why they breathe, why they wait. Have no soul. Need no soul."
   Shrugging, Flores took another bite of bread. Then sampled the meat. "So you don't understand the words 'I' or 'you'?... Okay... Does SingSong know why it breathes, why it waits?"
   The old man brightened. "Life knows! Life knows love! Knows why it breathes, why it waits. SingSong waits for Love, for caress of the Divine. Loving knows why it breathes. SingSong knows why it sings. Soul-as-well has no song, hides its love with clothing, its voice flat, dead. Waits for nothing. Dreams nothing. Does not feel, but thinks and talks of feeling."
   Another shadow flickered above and the soughing rose again. All eyes turned heavenward and Flores followed. To his surprise a malkop hovered some distance away. It descended into the field. He had supposed they only visited during the day, likely from the parallel he had drawn with real flowers. But malkops frequented Ven at night. Why not here as well? His musings were cut short by the swelling of the voices into a cacophony, an orgy, of pleasure. Every man-tree in Flores' vicinity seemed transported into a realm of ecstasy, their full attention drawn to the winged creature that moved among them. Flores hid behind one man-tree to watch.
   The selk landed, folded its wings. It stepped close, pale in the moonlight. Sighs enveloped it, accompanied by a high-pitched trilling that Flores took to be invitations. . .