They call it a lead. The word is almost comical in its inadequacy. He does not lead; he prepares the floor beneath her feet.
On Love, Buckets, and Blurted Words
Love, as a concept, does not make me swoon. It makes me reach for my vomit bucket with the urgency of someone spotting a wall painted aggressively pink. Not because I am some tragic, hollow shell of a human (though I am sure the panel of imaginary judges is still reviewing that claim), but because…
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