The heart. What a strange organ man has chosen as the avatar of his love. Of all the organs held within his frame, this one is the most inconstant. Ever does it vary in speed and intensity, squeezing a man’s blood through channels and tributaries it shall never know; working in darkness, thrusting and pumping till he dies, like an unfaithful lover quit of its paramour. And yet, without this inconstancy, this strangeness of mood and secretive touch, our lives would not be. With the stoic blandness of a jaded prostitute our hearts caress our blood; taking in the cold, the depleted, and sending it out anew, refreshed and whole. Unlike the compassion of love, but strong and sure as that emotion’s ties, do our hearts bend to their tasks, like seamstresses about the cloth.


— david j.



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