I often think of troubadours (cf.
cavalier poets), their metrical rhymes,
their passions (n.: the sufferings of a
martyr). They too wanted love — but burning
in the timbers of their desire was a
hope, that love would lift them above the mun-
dane and ordinary, that through love they
would become more like the gods — more alive.
Think, my friend, on how ordinary and
extraordinary love is — pause — then, breathe.

Your friend (and troubadour, of sorts) — S. Rush