By Loreto Eibhllann
“The Jodi Trial live, about an act of the great emotional and mental and even physical self-defense of one child-woman ~ An act of rational survival and based not at all on the rifts of passion that the expert puppeteer used to raise and fall her frail temperament. Today’s decision to find our innocent girl-victim guilty of any murder whatsoever fails to fully address the very real and the very true problem of ‘Battered Female Syndrome’ and a very real international precedence of a problem created by this bad and heinous decision done by a jury likely so numb from 60’s pot due to the era that they grew up in, that the mismatched panel who hardly any judge in his right mind might even begin to label a crew, let alone a team, does not even realize yet that they made a decision based only on selfish human emotion and set a precedent based on the unexplained hatred of many female feminists for her. The young girl, no match at all, and an infant regarding and compared to a man who against our country of the U.S.A. blew up a lot of innocent Americans during a sporting event and got treated like a royal ~ And yet a girl inside of a woman’s body, completely brain-washed, and an emotionally and now mentally and even sexually immature and dysfunctional and therefore physically abused child who only hungry for the love of God, the sick American media forced the poor girl to play second fiddle to a so-called Mormon man, who now dead had exploited and verbally abused his very loving girlfriend, the precious-hearted Jodi Arias, whose shade of deep and virgin-pink mourned her last and only hope to marry him, he dashed to the ground with four fatal words. “I will kill you.” A cruel blow considering the extremely submissive Proverbs 31 woman child obeyed his every command, only committed the crime of living to love and daily dying to self to please his every whim. However, it seemed that this man, whose lust and hunger for adverse and strange and unholy and unrestrained out of marriage sex, despite the testimony of a woman, a prior girlfriend who the man obviously left, and was not with at the time of his prostitution of Jodi, a battered woman who snapped suddenly under the minute revelation of the usury of a man named Travis, her long period of waiting for him to propose holy matrimony to her and commit the final act of healing love upon her soul, that of the hope deferred of the Secret Wedding obviously drove her right over the edge of sanity to a land whose schizophrenic sunset she soon even unknowingly began to daily embrace.” Who other than Travis, merely only a byword for the symbol every battered and abused woman knows as just another name for the batterer? Every picture paints a story doesn’t it? Every single last picture of Jodi with this man, even if no one ever gave another moment of testimony, knows that Jodi saw him as her savior, she worshipped the ground he walked on, and he as demented savior of only his own private world damped with the sweat of a more pornographic physical satiation alone, he as the thousand shades of a cold dark night, cared nothing for her the way she did for him. His greatest mistake was assuming he could go on using the poor child, whose mind she clearly had, and even her unloving and clueless parents said so, forever. What law the battered women of California changed to protect abused women from being murdered upon threat by their abusive husbands first, Arizona now needs to follow suit. After all, a small band of national newsmen today bantered on the brink of sobbing that men who murder their wives ruinously, might even face jail time after today because of the new precedent.” Newscaster, Miss Sally Fullofmoregrace laid her telecast papers on the desk of the newsroom and staring straight ahead, smiled into the camera of the Christian news broadcast camera, and like she had done all of the rest of the years she had worked here volunteering her time for free, straightened her skirt with two hands, and placed her two hands then on either side of each cheek and made sure her make-up was still there. You see there had been a time when Sally did not even own a blush pot let alone a pair of shoes. Sally who had once lived on an isolated farm as a very abused woman, had finally escaped after some years of a more horrifying hell, and within barely an inch of losing her own life at the hands of a man who did not care well knew Jodi’s sheer panic and her full concern over a loveless man.
Sally also knew that if someone, even the jury did not do something and fast to turn something over or change their minds sometime soon, that battered and abused women everywhere would feel sheer terror at exercising the unalienable human right to self-defense and self-protection. After all, she thought to herself leaving the news desk and heading for her locker to grab an apple and some aspirin, the feminists fighting to break the prior precedent that had been set to protect abused women seemed insane enough. But the men? Did they not realize that the law worked in reverse order for either gender? In short, everyone saw what was really going on all wrong. The feminists knew exactly what they were up to, she reasoned. Women like Nancy Shoelace and the other female news casters of the secular world saw what she saw too. The new precedent actually said that any man who killed a woman who actually really did stalk him, unlike the innocent Jodi Arias, would find himself facing the death penalty if he actually did turn and kill her in self-defense. Now it would not matter if the other party held a large sabre or a butcher knife or a ghetto gun. The man would be imprisoned immediately, and just as Jodi had been when she used self-defense to protect herself from the attack of an abusive man, falsely accused.
Fallen, fallen, fallen is Babylon the great. And with no real fair judicial recourse, and with puppet witnesses come to reiterate only book memorized testimony, the man’s trial likely would be very similar to this one. But here is the real secret, secretly. Most feminists do not like men. Secretly. And the reason Jodi remains unliked, and this is putting it nicely if not albeit absolutely weakly thought Sally Fullofgrace, is that she is feminine, but not feminist. “It is really too bad, and so very sad that your dead husband died of the crime of wife abuse under the judgment and ardently of the filial venture sentence of God ~ And his coming passing never, ever, ever, ever reputed even a symbolized need to apologize to you for trying to murder you,” muttered her colleague into his daily stock report on the elevator going up to the 7’s for lunch. “Indeed, not understanding that sex is not love, a theory even the dumbstruck witnesses seemed to fail to comprehend, marked Jodi’s downfall too.” She stared at him. But as was her custom denied him that other filial luxury of looking straight at her eyes. She pulled up her large Yoko Ono shades and with red lipstick, ten years behind the times, or light years ahead, knew it was sometimes like this in this brave new world of today. She had been suddenly thrust into the future of, whatever you sometimes thought, and often nothing at all like what others just said ever meant a single thing.
Earlier the past week, while decoding tapes for the television screen, she had leaned back and with no one in there except her, she put her feet up on the desk. Sometimes her feet still hurt so from all of that walking. But she knew the secret to that too. That only prayer would work. She kneaded her thumbs into the base of her heels. This was difficult to do, and almost required the precision of an expert Chinese acupuncture, as her feet were small, and the bones equally too, it seemed as if God himself had made her for those other sufferings. With size 5 shoes, she made a mental note to throw the American high-heel spikes in the trash can on the way out and put on instead the tennis-shoes of which she had a pair to match every suit. “What nice feet you have,” she imagined the mugger saying. “All the better to…” she began to reply. And then quickly changed her mind from dancing the high kick to just the dance. Suddenly the man who she imagined came from the new office. No, around the corner. No. No. No. Out of the paper towel rack. Too phony. Through the window for an interview. Why? Would a secret wedding which had taken place earlier between Jodi and Travis, brought the two closer together as long as all of her exploits with the man had remained a secret? Or would Travis had only proceeded to use the marriage bond even more to control the relationship, and capitalize on the fact he knew, which the prosecutor of the trial also knew and accidentally brought out the facts about, which is that a lot of abused women often due to the trauma do not speak up well in court.
It was the love of her life and they were on top of the Four Seasons overlooking the arch and with the mini-pool and hot tub nearby he said, “I’m exhausted, I’ve worked all day.” And jumped into the hot tub and fell asleep fast. Or he said, and dipped his hand and self way down low and bowed like King Louie the fifth and said something delightful in German and she fell asleep, as this was just too fake and not quite right. Next, she wore a simple Satin gown and pearls and with bare feet, for this felt so good and as she toed and made ballet feet, she knew that she wished she could dance across the night sky on air, just like people do when they fall asleep and fly. She had started this after her stepson’s murder, this fantasy. She knew she had left reality. She watched herself alive below, while she lived unknowing and dead as well, a sheer spirit and wisp for the months of grief that followed. And that was when she secretly on pieces of frazzled napkins from fancy dinner tables where she sat and graced, but never ate, she smiled as if making lists, for her husband forbade her to do this, to write in a creative way and while she wrote the play, she began to sing the song in her head that went with it, and her stepson was the star, and it was that way. That although she watched as the two arch angels carried his bending frame with smiling ocean eyes and pale hair flowing up to heaven, for his spirit and his voice, he lived before her here.
The sacrilegious act, so-called, of writing a play, this criminal charge confused her she supposed just nearly, if not exactly as much as Jodi’s charges against her confused her. Add one more woman to those who had both been abused, for as the trinity which also included the now newscaster, the other once-abused and battered woman of a very commanding man once noted that you do not care or pray at all about the horrors behind the closed doors of others, until a woman, a sister or a mother close to you must kill in order to survive, or is murdered by a battering man. Even though he also did not ever permit her to as Jodi to move about freely, or even read, she read a lot of books now. The most recent, He Promised He’d Stop by once Senior Probation Officer, Michael Groetsch, a man who won awards working with the U.S. Department of Justice and the Attorney General’s Office of Louisiana to literally burn a huge rip-tide for the care of as opposed to the rejection and shunning of battered women. His writing and his defining the truth about serial batterers, the eternally untreatable psychotics who destined only to kill their mates, sound much like the original plan perpetrated by Travis against Jodi, Groetsch emphasized on the subject of men who love to oppress or beat on women. No limiting tsunami of true information on the assessment of female abuse, Assessing The Danger, a training film used for the education of professional advocates and law enforcement with a serious heart bent for abused women, the film won a Silver Screen Award at the 1997 U.S. International Film and Video Festival. Another book, the spousal abuse expert penned, spoke from a scholarly and clearly researched, yet a drawing social expose’ about men who promise themselves and even you that when he wakes up the next morn, that he has found redemption from battering and that such verbal or physical evil is over. The Battering Syndrome: Why Men Beat Women And The Professional’s Guide to Intervention, highlights how really the abuse or the buck ends there, according to his other golden gem. Only some men, and very rare at that white-knuckle such a thing without eventually and suddenly, turning into a inevitable MV-22 Osprey capable of exploding at a magnificent and unpredictable rate of sheer miscalculation and of course an always, accidentally. In short, this type of man really does feel things, such as, “I am so sorry I did that. Did what I really did.” The man feels remorse. The book rates this kind of an abuser as a Level II. Abuser, capable of possible reconciliation, and yet most definitely a candidate for consideration as a possible rehabilitation major.
A man who has left Levels III., IV. or even V. is way out of the major league, and the only possibility of rehabilitation is none. His only hope, that once farmed out, they lead him to a gentler pasture, for the padding much-needed to still his lifelong and obviously still burning anger, and as every wise and discerning caretaker soon finds out, or not, it is the man who targets the victim, and the victim considered often and only a mere object, often has nothing whatsoever to do with that act. Well by now, Fullofgrace considered she had been trapped inside of her own head, as she had the very moment she had begun the honeymoon, a night filled with more full than gentle moon, and of her late, great, and very abusive and very frightening nightmare marriage. The marriage over and the man now for more than two years since dead, still she still lost herself, and remembering some of the concept of The Valley of The Dolls, even with or without medication and without even a tiny glass of wine to drink, which after her cousin jumped all over her she did realize that in her state of mind, he was right, this was something someone like her most of all should never, ever, ever do again.
And so she left the roof top she so loved. For if no man was looking, she did put her palms out to fly. And she could hear things no man could hear, and could see things no normal god of deity would ever even begin to hope to understand. She pushed up on her toes, and understanding that people stood all around with clinking cocktail glasses and mission duties to make last-minute business deals, wondered why people wasted such air and such time as this with such when they could be doing better things, things they were truly created to do, such as this. She bowed her arms and began to pull her toe out and as she looked down, she bent her head sideways and thought of this gentle breeze. “No stop.” A man had come over and put his hand on hers and gently pulled her leg down. Secretly, she realized that he thought she might think to dance through the glass and go many stories down below. She looked at him and perplexed, stared into his eyes, for she wondered about his soul. He had no idea of her desire. Her real desire was to walk to the glass sheer hallway and touch either side and feel either warm or of cold according to the season and close her eyes and go down the stairway this way. She had done this for hours in the place and heard for hours. But she would not tell him even with her eyes the other secret about this. She wondered if he spoke with his eyes. For she remembered also shallow eyes. A homeless man who after she washed his hair and shaved his ugly, matted beard, she told him with great wonder. “You look like this movie star I saw in, I saw in.” And then she could not remember. That happened too sometimes. He was not Richard Gere. He was not Brad Pit. But she told him, “What will you be? One day she picked up a video at the store and saw the man she meant. Now again, she could not remember his name. But always his face. What will you be someday in this life?” She asked him. She was not one to give in. She demanded an answer. She would stand there and not leave, and with love and without abuse force him to make a commitment to his own life. It would have to be, and just as surely as Jodi must become something beautiful still yet in this life, she would wonder for hours, and as she as an artist removed brushes and put their very cheeks on named colors of paints, she admired as Michelangelo once did the grace of the curve of a design here, and a lovely and more useful flaw there.
“I just snapped. I wished I’d never done it.” And while feminist fat-heads with no grace for the girl, looked on, and standing outside the courthouse with Satanic venom dripping from lips who like the black snake she remembered and through misfortune and fate forced herself to find a way to live side-by-side in some uncertain modicum of, but of a gentler and for her sake relative peace, she blew a first kiss of the day to her dead lover as well. A relationship one part wonder, one often wonders how wonderous crimes of passion come about. But when self-protection comes to a woman with a child’s mind, the poor innocent considers not the act of jading herself forever. A pre-calculated and thorough or planned Charlie Manson she is most definitely not. The crushed lamb, her soul a smash-box of steady fear knows what she fears most, that truth that she knows all along. The minute she lifts one hand of self-defense to her abuser, let alone kills him as a normal and reasonable man would likely have done in the case of Jodi or others a long-time prior hence ~ Once the battered woman, and she knows innately about the judgment of the world, even lays one hand on her bondage-maker, despite all of the psychological and physical beatings and sexual demeaning, she feels trapped by through him, only some women believe that God will deliver them from out of this. A woman who clearly of tears and of sorrow and of fear and greatly repentant, a truly battered woman always fears the lopsided judgment of the societal lion den who she knows hungers for her very body to assuage the same uncontrollable rage as the angry man, and as the man lust with a sick and throbbing womb to target the bloody woman with legal plague. Wanting to protect herself, the beaten down woman knows she must speak. At the same time, a sweat that lasts all through a one night of trepidation of her facing people, of telling them anything, she knows wraps around the coming trap of his uncontrollable rage for her. What she wants to tell you is that which she cannot. The truth of the matter is that she lives with the constant fear that she may during a moment of his violent and evil turmoil directed mercilessly against her, snap and of that dispensation kill him, her strong abuser, and end up as the criminal instead.
A female constable of a mad Hunger Game, even Nicholson might fear to play the part of the male abuser opposite to the angel of a better light. And even the script was hot off the press when the trial did first start, this martyr pledge begged for forgiveness not just two times, and not just three times. But many times. Expressed her great and endearing sorrow for what she had done. And as she described her behavior, whose court felt fit as many do these days, to fit it all inside of a puzzle mass of psychology. And then interconnecting the pieces, but how can they when the person is not yet whole? This is seeming to become less law, and a whole lot more just like the godless ramblings of some mental institute matrons and fawning deans whose fraudulent, I mean Freudian slips, and brute force, I mean requests for complete cooperation, who as the media seem only to care how best to ready themselves and like a more mentally ill, but psychotic cat to show Jodi what the rooster, I mean chickens do to the odd one out. And by that, I do mean peck with a capital “P” and with all meanings congruent to the left, and this does not mean polite or to the right. It means only peck to death.
“It is a true surprise that the smell of that fresh female blood does not arouse, if a man arise, sorry again, mate.” Said one man to another as she drifted or rather floated through one eating place of the large hotel listening as she went by, and as often hearing many conversations at once, had to focus to hear each one at a time. Here, others talked about the trial as well. The professional meeting place about the hearings of the nations, today most people only wanted to know about this one. “I’m trying to wake up.” Replied the one partner to the other. Voices fell light vibration on a pillow. “But morning comes early even for a long dead, of hours shark boy corpse, who even one woman’s ex-dead husband barely made a claim to heaven ~ He also died from celebrating getting away with all the evil he had done too much. Disloyal feminists. Every time a weaker woman messes up, they want her shot. Murdered. Sent to the grave.” The other man, and older one with grey hair nodded. The younger man already knew, for he too had studied psychology with this man in law school. He had even memorized the malady with rote precision. Referring to the defunct boyfriend of Jodi, who he indicated to the man across with him, who by now pulling his own corn beef out sheet by sheet watched as one green olive popped out, and flowed down the length of the table. “Escapes detection.” He perfectly quoted. Completing the recital, still his dictionary description of Travis continued. “Often, this kind of batterer becomes highly educated. It’s not that he’s more intelligent than other serial batterers; it’s that his life-unlike the chaos-filled lives of antisocial, narcissistic, or histrionic batterers is organized and strictly focused, and he knows how to follow the rules.” The man who pulled on the corn beef raised his eyebrows, only slightly. The partner went on reciting. “He tends to seek a career in the military, law, law enforcement, or politics, and a diploma gives him access to high-status jobs of power and control.” The man with the corn beef began to choke, along with several lawyers parked at perfect white-linen tables all around him.
The two men spent over five hours filtering out the differences between men who used this power who incessantly unemployed, an enigma too difficult for most normal people to even begin to understand, and the men who had positions of power and used them to shut abused women and the cries of them, and even the decisions made about the children out. This unemotional, and what most psychologists even consider as infantile behavior, as the shutting off of the motions is the demonstration of immaturity as opposed to maturity. Even the mother figure witness brought up starboard to speak about herself and her logical relationship with Travis prior to his meeting who he initially referred to as the love of his whole life, Jodi. The sick and evil Mormon boy apparently only needed a temporary mother figure with whom to bond and find his way. “But by description of the actual speech and activity of Travis,” said the other partner lawyer who staring at his holy spirit insignia ring from Brigham Young University said to the other one, “I remember the day of my own Baptism. And even as I contemplate that day and that time, I think it safe to say that even if he [Travis] had gone up to the temple for a white wedding day, the ornate lions alone would have spewed him out, especially because of all of the activity that he had secretly initiated with Jodi. Reading over the boy’s transcripts,” said the Utah based partner of the firm, “I don’t know who of the two seemed more mentally ill.” “Or did the chicken come before the egg?” Inquired the other man. “How can people be so stupid,” said Attorney Biff. Even Associate Partner Buff agreed that the boy should have been locked up and put on salt-peter a real long time ago. What with his borderline pedafile dementia, exhibited by the clear evidence of his constant references to his preferences for twelve-year old little girls. In addition, the Stage II. Abuser reinvented himself as the more uncensored Travis, whose secondary personality split, predictive of his later death threat of Jodi at the murder scene, then coupled with unsanitary exploits like no other Mormon boy, and especially the self-only satisfaction, ever possibly on record in the history of America. Even the prophets of the multiple marriage radicals did not see such a demented array of such a great extent of his strange and dark variety. Travis did not just prefer shades of grey. Travis deep-danced in the dark and seemed to welcome, if not outright make invitation to the final freeze-play of a more complex bondage, which ultimately led to his own grave. “But, the very fact that Travis on the verge of a more Stage III. pedafile advance, it seemed, Miss Jodi did our society a great favor, a prolific vigilante’ piece of a great work of art, and through her classic removal of a predator, saved a lot of boys and girls from a life of misery, sadness, self-loathing, uncontrollable promiscuity, therapy, suicidal tendencies and worst of all, the inability to walk down the aisle and make a vow of marriage.”
She who had never known any man, knew Travis only as a mate. And he knew how and had explicitly captured, and staging groomed Jodi and trained Jodi as a sexual slave of his own overdrive of personal need. “And, well,” said Mr. Buff, “If the victims were going to be your little girl or boy, you would almost want to hand little Jodi her hard-earned police woman check.” Her hours and hours and hours of court room time alone while keeping placid amidst under the throe of a great oppression seemed to merit even this. And why the audience of this particular Hunger Game seemed to enjoy the thrill of the already captured hunt, this too should frighten other audiences everywhere as Jodi may not always be the only target of the sick hunt. What is more, Travis easily tripped up and on over to the wrong side of the tracks of a negative circuit continuum of behavior. Classified as a hopeless batterer, even his future marriage to someone other than Jodie, his behavior he would have improved to worsen, and learned how to become essentially much more hidden about his perversions than ever before. So, with a schedule of perverted sex concluded Lawyer Biff, and his head filled with a chic-filet of ideas for more perverted sex, the man Travis knew how to work the little girl inside of Jodi enough to know he was wrapping her around his mind, while everyone failed to see that she had become one with his soul and with his heart, a wife, and encouraging her to fall so deeply in love with him, that he hoped secretly that she would always love him, and despite his acclimation to escape, that he wanted to stay with her forever. He gave proof of his calculating and many violations of her of the union during court proceedings. Drawing and depicting her as a mentally-ill whore, even her own parents shamefully and wrongfully rejected her as well as refused to provide Jodi with the much needed affirmation of an acupuncture of basic human support and love. Travis on the other hand enjoyed as a part of his false act drawing in and then that which, all categories of an abuser includes the lack of remorse, an inability to love and bond, and a complete absence of empathy, which even at the time of death, it is perfectly clear that Travis had all three of the above. “Heh,” Said Buff before that.
An unrestrained jackal even at his very worst knows that his victim is not invincible. “Travis capitalized on the insecurity and on the character faults of Jodi. Just as it was easy for him to draw a young, innocent Jodi in, based on first-hand experiences of other female observers, Travis also drew on his obvious psychiatric ability and knowledge to entrap Jodi for as long as he did. In short, Travis rode the goat. And then again he felt, it is clear to see, what every abusive man assumes, which is that the girl is his and his alone to own as a chattel. A tart fact this, since most worthy psychologists who study the books know that this is the first, foremost and most predominate identifying trait of a male abuser.”
Fullofgrace sat in the court room pouring over a three-to-five inch stack of online magazine articles about abused women. One article she read really piqued her interest. This article discussed the fact that much like the real Jodi here in the court-room today, that Travis likely looked upon his prior girlfriend before Jodi as the mother figure he never had.” A woman who held him at a certain modicum of relational closeness. But his twisted sense of a younger, a more beautiful and a more attractive female young lady, Travis really should be held completely accountable for ruining and especially as a proclaimed Mormon person for mistreating, misdirecting, and polluting the innocent mind of a precious and tender being, an impressionable young soul, a human being, a life and not a sex toy ~ A beautiful, beautiful beautiful child of God worthy of saving, and even more worthy for months of a mental institution for help and rest and somewhere to get her mind straight of all of the confusion of what one very sick man did to inflict such a great program of sexual brainwash within the dear one’s soul. A two-year old child trapped in a teenage female body, this woman has not much recourse except to give all of her faith to Jesus Christ, as we all kneel in prayer and ask for God and his lovely angels to carry and escort her through.
“The death sentence. Really,” remarked one attendant to the court room. An old friend of Jodi. “Before you lose your lunch,” said the other elderly woman responding to her friend Agnes. The two women pictured poor Jodi laid out on a death metal bed pale and lifeless after the injection, her frail frame filled with the spirit of God and while tightly clutching her small, tiny tattered bible. And instantly they knew that the two must pray and get this Natzi Death Camp sentence stopped and reversed before it began. A male broadcaster reiterated during court room half-time and piped through the court room radio speakers a talk show discussed earlier in the story. He spoke in a high voltage voice, worried and upset that men everywhere who abused or tried to murder or actually did murder their wives or children might actually have to serve some jail time. The weeping willow of a man, began to cry and sob vehemently at even the very thought of this. A woman came on, actually speaking up for Jodi and for the first time in months since even one person ever did or perhaps her whole life, this made Jodi sob as well. It had felt so alone. In fact, never had a woman been so alone. The elder woman named Esther who speaking so thus avoiding just droning on some Christian radio talk show or another went on. “Such a sweet and pretty woman, that little Jodi,” she said. “I pray God shows the little lamb how much Jesus loves her.” Everyone in her prayer room put praying for Jodi’s favor and belief and safety and salvation first. “Why anyone in her shoes might as well pray for themselves. For, as it is, I pray that every last single one of you who did wrongfully judge this situation right, ends up exactly in the very shoes of Jodi. And we will see then who was wrong and who was right. After all, what if the man or woman you loved all of your life looked you right in the face and said it was over. After you did every thing short of sell your body in the streets for the love of that man. Gave him everything and your whole life as the lamb of sacrifice. Were willing to die for him, then should he not be willing to die for you as well? Sure and with that amount of timing on it to make a viable, wise and worthy decision. How would you react? He is all you ever lived and hoped for all of your life, and after you submitted as a sheep going to the slaughter house everything you’ve ever known as you, he just suddenly in one momentary snap decision of unrealized stupidity, tells you that the marriage of a joining with what he taught you as the only oneness and unity with a man you ever knew is now forever over. And he is off to seek a new wife. Everyone in Esther’s radio station prayer room sobbed and weeped profusely under the power of the holy ghost. ” The radio show closed with the song, “Put your hand in the hand of the man who stilled the waters. Take a look at yourself so that you can look at others differently.”
[Robert Plant: The Sea of Love]