No Title

What care I for love! Its adulation that drowns out all other enterprise of the heart like a siren. Its promise of treasure that lures man to concession of loves knavish aptitude. We overtly advertise our heart’s mannequin guards to forge the illusion of strength, yet wittingly concede love and the pursuit of, to direct our actions, choose our robes, set our goals, assign our speech. We grant it, like a spy, to ensconce in our aspirations, to squander our time and memory, to seek out names, to remember faces and places. To afford its attempts, avidity and appetite to influence even the most infinitesimal of decisions. To say this street or that street. This café or that café. And as a sportsman’s caddy, we follow. Is love so rich and potent that a mere drop hath the ability to dilute one hundred barrels of its ill side effects? Or is this mere legend? For its legend is all I have ever tasted. Why then do I proclaim a dish’s superiority if I have never tasted it! Why do I dedicate my life, to a king I have never seen?