I Have No Useful Theories About Love

That Summer When She Was Eighteen, It Seemed Anything Could Happen, Anything At All.

. . . He Felt Himself Entering A Moment So Real He Could Only Run Toward It, Shouting.

There Is Still That Singular Perfection, And It's Perfect In Part Because It Seemed, At The Time, So Clearly To Promise More.

This Is What You Do. You Make A Future For Yourself Out Of The Raw Material At Hand.

Love Is Deep, A Mystery - Who Wants To Understand Its Every Particular?