They do not learn to love. They live to love. There are countless volumes of books describing great love stories through the centuries. Monuments in human memory, not to brighten them. They love. They live the experiments of love. No, they are not in a laboratory, but their lives goes through a laboratory. They are the experimenters and they experimenting. Equally endangered to fail in their own experiment. They hurt each other with their failure. A kiss is not enough. They are looking forward to get carried away, to lose breaths. They have a convenience to pass from the one side to the other. Their imaginary life looks like the wiring on a thick sweater which does not protect them from the freezing their ellipse. The vacuum of their discharge swallows them. They stay cool. They have learned thousands of words over the years at school. They’ve learned their lesson. In the flesh now. They get first aid knowledge, to take care of their wounds. To nurse their selves. Or their friend’s woods. Ironically. They chew and spit the proposal that they’ve heard: that life is simple. It is not.
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