substance of the
thing. The
metaphysics and biochemistry, the
lived reality and poetry. The
reek of human humus. I don't know these things, what they are, what they're made of. The
romantics and the
nihilists and the
gurus pour vapor.
But love feels effible, it smells scrutable. It tastes like the
calamity that either encloses or is enclosed by it. It is black and miraculous, the
suspension of something tremendous and tremulous.
