Sometimes, the trouble with love is that it’s forever; and the trouble with forever is that it doesn’t make much sense with mortality. It’s unfair to say that mortal beings should be held to such accountability which exceeds their natural existence. I don’t lament because of love, I don’t find anger for its bidding; what discontent I find lies within its imposition of forever upon mortality—my mortality. How can it ask this of me? How can it demand that I go on loving endlessly, when, surely, I will die? There is nothing to do with such questions. There are no answers to be had in the wanting. It is an infinite task for a finite existence—a cosmic joke of bitter cruelty. And yet, far beyond the lines of reason, I sit with love; I become something that I cannot be—and its maddening (truly maddening).