openness light warm porridge in the morning after a rainy dreary empty heavy Sunday afternoon how revolutionary it is to stand above the red ceramic stove with your hand on my shoulder after all the terrible things we did yesterday (and all the terrible things we will do on Tuesday afternoon) how revolutionary it is for love to be simply love and for everything to go terribly irreparably wrong and to count on nothing, be sure of nothing but Monday mornings warm coffee music on the radio and this lungs and chests softly beating subsisting together