The NYTimes, back on Feb. 10, or Richard Seven writing up the work of David Levy in the Seattle Times point out a way that the conveniences of our age have made mincemeat of our moments and pretty much run a Hummer over our inclination toward contemplation. But if we live in an age when there hardly seems to be enough time to finish an article by Thomas Friedman or get all the way to the bottom of Andrew Sullivan's latest posting, we can perhaps fight back by resorting to a form of communication that served to diseminate thought when few were even able to read and contemplation was reserved for monks and kings: The aphorism.
Without any technological assistance, I have always had choppy attention so what little I can think, I must set down in briefest form. So: here goes nothing and lets see how long I can keep this up.
Love must be an addiction. We handle it as we handle other addictions: some celbrate it, some curse it.