Love, Loves

With our blind ears, we tend to listen. It hides behind the living skins that prevent us from passing through; if we get too close, it ducks deeper into the interior of the soul’s lands. It is free, will not be so easily captured. If it is forced to, it will not hesitate to leave the ship and take refuge in the aerial chance.

It is, they are like Little Thumb, they leave crumbs, so we don’t lose track of them. There are many loves. They are he, they are she. Love, young and old, is the lifeblood of our travels. Love, the great loner, envies nothing to Machiavelli, and we will continuously sacrifice our arms, our hearts, and even the whole of our lives to it.

We readily offer it our necks, its sword does not stop. And the most beautiful thing is that like headless poultry, we sing its glory, we run after it. The worst part is that our heads grow back and we dance, like beautiful turkeys, back to the scaffold.

Love is a joke, and woe to us if we stop laughing about it.