The Trouble With All Of Us Is

I Believe This. When We Meet Those We Fall In Love With, There Is An Aspect Of Our Spirit That Is Historian, A Bit Of A Pedant Who Reminisces Or Remembers A Meeting When The Other Has Passed By Innocently…but All Parts Of The Body Must Be Ready For The Other, All Atoms Must Jump In One Direction For Desire To Occur.

We Keep Wanting To Save Those Who Are Forlorn In This World. It’s A Male Habit.

From This Point On, She Whispered, We Will Either Find Or Lose Our Souls.

We Are Expanded By Tears, We Are Told, Not Reduced By Them.

When Someone Speaks He Looks At A Mouth, Not Eyes And Their Colors, Which, It Seems To Him, Will Always Alter Depending On The Light Of A Room, The Minute Of The Day. Mouths Reveal Insecurity Or Smugness Or Any Other Point On The Spectrum Of Character. For Him They Are The Most Intricate Aspect Of Faces. He's Never Sure What An Eye Reveals. But He Can Read How Mouths Darken Into Callousness, Suggest Tenderness. One Can Often Misjudge An Eye From Its Reaction To A Simple Beam Of Sunlight.