ðHgeocities.com/kitsunebi@swbell.net/sinamparo.htmlgeocities.com/kitsunebi_swbell.net/sinamparo.htmlelayedxújÔJÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÈ@¯~BOKtext/htmlx­JBÿÿÿÿb‰.HSun, 21 Jan 2007 21:43:23 GMT? Mozilla/4.5 (compatible; HTTrack 3.0x; Windows 98)en, *újÔJB Sin Amparo Sin Amparo

Why do we each believe our love to be so unique,
So special, when people have fallen in love back
into eternity? And do so everyday, every hour,
right outside on the street corner beneath the same sky
that all those in the past have.
When you think about it, love is quite a common place
thing, vulgar, and quotidian.
Countless people have passed through the same
tortuous doorway, but each possessed of the notion that
they are the first to pass through fire, the first in human
history with passion enough to eclipse the glory of the sun.

And yet, i am love, and no one can help me,
Why is that? Why, when the world is filled with lovers,
do i still feel supremely isolated. Is it that love is such a personal
event, such a personal hell; that love is such a thing that can not
be contained and therefore transmitted through the severely limited
device of human words? No one can explain or teach love, save two
people in the universe, two people experiencing love together,
trying to make sense of the senseless.

i tire of doubt and fear