By D. J. Andersen
"When I write, i believe like an armless, legless guy with a crayon in his mouth."
In an armless, legless global of my very own, lit in simple terms by means of a table lamp, a drug addict prays to God for romance, a girl loses love within the tragic throes of dementia, brutal males twist love into whatever else, a sociopath poisons love. Love is surrendered in an attic room, love is remembered and longed for years after it used to be lightly thrown down, love is discovered in rain beating down at the hood of a motor vehicle trapped in site visitors. whereas I write with a blue crayon, an artist makes a decision that love is orange, and paints it that approach with mannerist brush strokes on a delicately stretched canvass. It has appeared to me that nearly every thing ultimately starts off and ends with a few type of love.