I wish to be disarmed. And I wonder, do I ask for too much? Who of us now, of those that have lived, still believe in love? Yet this is what I speak of, if you will: magic. How can it be that — so thrashed about that I have been — I have returned here, to the lonely mountaintop, to overlook the vast empty landscape and dream? There were times when I lost hope, that love did nothing for me but make me hurt (or even less, and how sad that was). But this believing — that there be a woman’s eyes somewhere that makes me forget all the world — returns to me like moonlight after a long, stormy season. When my heart was a desolate thing, I had forgotten what ultimately gives us all breath. And some divine afterthought now speaks this secret to me: you need not even believe for love to happen to you. You need no qualification at all. Believing just makes the anticipation smile — but there is nothing that prepares you for when it may so strike you, disarm you. Sometimes, even the broken heart is sweet enough: for poetry shall always come when hearts long genuine, truth! But really, I might end that you forget you ever read this, for I wish not to get your hopes up. These are just words; just get back to your everyday. (And remember that I told you so.)