Love Doesn't Demand Perfection, But It Does

The Heart That Has Truly Loved Never Forgets, But As Truly Loves On To The Close.

Disguise Our Bondage As We Will, 'tis Woman, Woman, Rules Us Still.

Go Where We May, Rest Where We Will, Eternal London Haunts Us Still.

When We Relate To Our Bodies As Having Soul, We Attend To Their Beauty, Their Poetry And Their Expressiveness. Our Very Habit Of Treating The Body As A Machine, Whose Muscles Are Like Pulleys And Its Organs Engines, Forces Its Poetry Underground, So That We Experience The Body As An Instrument And See Its Poetics Only In Illness.

Love Doesn't Demand Perfection, But It Does Ask You To Give Yourself With Less Reserve Than You'd Prefer.