What falters in love's journey towards perfection? What accidental misstep falls out of concourse with a true future unfolding? What freakazoid mutant spasm unexpectedly explodes across the face of the known universe marring our perception and acceptance of reality? The churning, yearning, infinite abyss that we like to call home plays by no one's rules, making all points moot, meaningless threads of drivel tied to ideas whose purposes are unfathomable as they are idiosyncratic. One needn't look beyond these very words before your eyes now to see the truth of this.
The Secret Joy of Repetitive Thematic Structure
The beauty of a star
Depends on how far
Light goes to be known
The duty of an art
Fulfills its part
The moment it is shown
"They sin who tell us love can die;
With life all other passions fly,
All others are but vanity.
Love is indestructible,
Its holy flame forever burneth;
From heaven it came, to heaven returneth.
It soweth here with toil and care,
But the harvest-time of love is there."
Robert Southey (1774–1843)
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