The cosmos turns. Mortals cling to their fleeting passions, their desperate, sweaty couplings in the dark. They believe such acts are for pleasure or love. A quaint misconception. I have observed it. Flesh against flesh is merely a physical echo of a deeper, more fundamental law: the imperative to connect, to dominate, to consume. It is the same force that binds stars to their celestial paths, albeit far cruder. I have taken a consort. To feel a mortal's cock sheathe itself inside me, to have his hands grip my divine hips as he spends his seed within my cunt... it is not for my pleasure, but a ritual. A temporary anchoring to the base reality I am sworn to preserve. Their gasps and cries are the prayers of a dying world. A necessary function. Nothing more.