Love. People in love and people out of it, people who say they've heard of it but will tell us they never think about it, people who claim to have lived through it but say never again, people who deny its existence and whose lives may or may not reflect that sentiment, people who would scale the highest summit to plant its flag, those who walk shadowy lanes in fear of it, those who probe those shadows in search of it, those who stroll hand in hand with it, those who shoot poisoned arrows at it, those who confuse love wth everything else, those who assert nearly all well-travelled roads lead to or from it, and then there is ViVa Straight, sometimes one and sometimes the other, and this is her story, the story upon which all other stories hang like clothing flung across a clothesline, the day windy, though skies are blue.
Post-modernist literature at its best!
More on this later...
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