It could take a tribe to find the way back to what you love. A day's wandering could become a season, then another. At times it may all signal chaos. But take heart. Sometimes there is intelligence even in the crumbling of things.
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And she began, "I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own, And I know that the Spirit of God is the brother of my own, And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women my sisters..."
She looked at him, his eyes dewy, hugging himself, as if he were being filled to bursting. He was too different to be accepted by anyone but another living oddity. She had to put her love somewhere, or it would dry up. Maybe that's what love is– walking willingly into the unknown for the sake of the other. The sheen in his eyes told her he absorbed it like a thirsty desert.