A WORD 1 Love is all that remains of the serpent's textbook. The end of the world began when death discovered bad timing. Everyone at once perfected lying. Love would climb a tree to lie, rather than stand on the ground and tell the truth. This is how death invented art, and why love is the only chance we've got.
Love is the kind of roadmap that is always folded ineptly.
It's never precisely backwards, just larger than you have room for. Boredom is its own excuse. It fits snugly inside of everything. Fear is our name for the previous moment. The road is either nearby or clearly marked.