It is a truth universally acknowledged that people in love are people found.
Even if one tried, one cannot escape from, nor ignore one’s strongest muscle that emulates a desperate caterpillar’s. This muscle is a muscle of the heart that is eager to break free from the claws of conformity, which it is bound by from the moment it is born; where it’s rebellious limbs instinctively practice within and against the laws of physics and nature; laws that appear to relentlessly sustain the creature’s seemingly pointless, externally influenced, and perfectly molded and orchestrated existence. That is, until one day when the caterpillar blossoms into a creature with wings; a thing with a real purpose that springs into action when faced with the highest form of adversity, like dealing with the stink of French blue cheese that leaves behind its cheap perfume in a room with no ventilation. Death of the senses, birth of a soul. And there, on a sofa, begins and ends the story of two lost souls aimlessly meandering around like headless politicians clinging onto something they no longer have. (Dysfunctional penises, your time is up). And all that remains within these quietly suffocating walls of love and loss is the eerie stench of pain mixed in a ball of anger, confusion, and the feculent funk of French cheese.