Meissner

Love; eros. I don't comprehend it, the 

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.