Love seems such a flimsy net to catch so much. So many beasts, capable of tearing a man to shreds, get tangled in its soft web. Stories are the only creatures to escape from the net. One tells itself: To love just one, and lose that love, and find it fugitive, hiding from itself, terrified of each trembling reflection caught between the light and dark. I saw it with my only eyes and felt it beating in the same old heart that I found in a womb and lost in places where only the lonesome flowers grow.