Anyone who has ever...

...truly loved must then have been Hamlet. Or Ophelia. Or both. At some point all of us tensely coupled in a parlor of mirrors, searching for sources. Of love itself. Of the real or imagined deceptions it is clouded by. The parlor's checker tiles portioning out the halting steps we take. Trying, despite our minds, to land squarely on the black and white.

...Love as madness. Sometimes it is. Sometimes we are. And when so, it is a backhanded compliment. Cupid pistol-whipping you with the broadside of his arrow until you wish he'd just run the damn thing through already. Down a stiff whiskey, cock back that reckless, pudgy arm and crack your sternum stupid again. Anything but the thoughts spent minds fit in between the cold slappping flat of the point.

...Of course, to have all of this is "to be." To one day plot out our own dramas.

..."That is," after all, "the question."

For those also walking the river...

...may your tender feet find the mossiest rocks. We are all bankside to the bright waters somehow. Even where I sit, the neighbor's front yard exotics against the pastel striations of smog at twilight. Beautiful here. Beautiful there. Toes in gutters. Toes in brooks. Toes in gossip rags. Toes in books. Welcome. There's plenty of room. Never doubt it. Noses touching as I breathe this into your mouth. Believe me? Hot breath. You must...

....They are all bright. Even the lurid fathoms. Bright with purpose in this world. Turn the rock in your hand. Keep turning it. Eventually every crevice will take the light.

More soon,
Yours (bright is as dark does) truly