Dispatch

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(d)h