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I have imagined love so much that I fear I have ruined myself for ever being able to recognize it. That upon finally meeting it, I will let it pass me by like a stranger or in my weaker moments scoff at its outstretched hand as if it were a bedraggled beggar, angling for petty coins in the street. But then again, to believe the imagination capable of such cruelty? To accuse it of creating horrors beyond comprehension and enfolding them in the blinding lights of wonder? How would one even – no. To follow that road would be to invite Death within my soul. And while it would not be a complete death, it would be a death none the less. Better then to let the imagination have the final word. Because after all, if love should not present itself as either stranger or beggar – but in fact not at all – I cannot think of a more safeguarding haven than the wonderous lies of the imagination.