Man can never know the kind of loneliness a woman knows.
Man lies in a woman's womb only to gather strength,
nourishes himself from this fusion, and then he rises
and goes into the world, into his work, into battle, into art.
He is not lonely. He is busy. The memory of the swim in amniotic fluid gives him energy, completion.

The woman may be busy too, but she feels empty.
Sensuality for her is not only a wave of pleasure in which she has bathed,
and a charge of electric joy at contact with another.

When man lies in her womb, she is fulfilled, each act of love a taking of man within her, an act of birth and rebirth, of child-bearing and man-bearing. Man lies in her womb and is reborn each time anew with a desire to act, to BE.

But for woman, the climax is not in the birth, but in the moment the man rests inside of her.