here’s more, always more, of love and truth. There’s when you look at yourself in the mirror. It can be a physical mirror and it can be the mirror in your head and it can be a pane of glass and it can be a puddle after weeks of rain. You think, that wasn’t love, or that was love, or that is lost love, or I’ll never feel that way again, or I wish I could do it over again even though it hurt me motherfucking hurt me, or let me call this beloved, let me call that beloved, or what I wouldn’t do to feel again, or… It gets harder as you age, one beloved said to another beloved, it gets harder; but as one ages it becomes easier, too, to say that yes, I feel, I feel. So which is it? Harder or easier or neither or both? For who and for whom and for who? This was love, a story: she met him at the end of her life and died not in his arms—that is how it used to happen, it doesn’t happen like this today—but watching the path that he’d walk to reach her, she could almost see him when it happened. Love invites truth, it invites the profound, but this isn’t what it is. This isn’t it. This isn’t love. It’s too easy to conflate love with the truth, with the profound. Love is something different though and we hope it’s here, somewhere, in this story, this narrative, this place. Because for what else would we do this? From where else would this come? What have we titled this place, the home to these words, to the other words, to some small piece of some small person’s time, some group of persons laboring individually apart mostly and without the time or the time-machine or the space-machine to be all there forever, as in our infant stages we wish to live, one supposes, pre-pregnancy, pre-birth? Here is the pain. The small things that take you from now to now, the small things that you enjoy, the short bicycle ride, the butterfly, the cat on your lap, whatever it is, this is of what we try to speak. All titles are really of one. Life is but an exploded nexus of being unimaginable and so is love.

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