It is impossible to say what love is. This can be said for others only slightly more than for oneself. The constant speakers will, of course, always disagree. They will tell you what something is and isn't. Their truths needing to outdo yours. Their insistence is reliable - the tedium of certainty. They contradict themselves if left to speak for too long, or when interrupted for any time, but who can blame the for never noticing. When one is so full of thought it is a wonder they never burst. They are like the joke about socialists: eventually they run out of other people's air.
I feel as if I am running out of time to write, and I am.
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