Love is a tapestry of silk unfolding continuously

We Love for the sake of Union

Our hearts are but pathways to this

The method is as ancient as is the sun

And is encoded in all of our actions

You see it in how young lovers make haste

And in how the elderly saunter

In towns and in citys we find this enchantment

And all with the common denominator:

The Game must be played with the purist intent

And no foresight may be granted to the seeker.

All thought for the Game must be stopped in the instant

That the seeker discovers It's nature.

This playing is all for the continuation

Of all of our futures before us

We play it unconsciously; seeking the truth

To life's biggest question and answer.

Part-Time Brain Death

There are certain times where I, try as I might, cannot think of what I had wanted to say at some other point. The idea that I am just "wrong" because I cannot think of the thing when called upon to do so makes me terribly reluctant to care anymore.
For instance:
When arguing over something stupid like whose turn it is to do the dishes, or who said what when, (or anything along those lines really!) I can almost never provide specific examples of my woes; just the woes by themselves. If I were alone sitting on the couch thinking, I could elaborate to great lengths about the same things that, in the other circumstance, are somehow not available to my mental state. Is this some sort of part-time brain death? How could things held to be so important one minute, make such a quick departure from my faculties?
Must be all the ... Kool Aid ... yea, Kool Aid...

How many boxes will fit in one's living room, and for how long?

So the process of moving to another apartment has raised new issues and questions for me. In answer to the previously posed question; hundreds of boxes can be stacked upon the living room floor. As far as how long they may stay there, that is totally decided by the significant other in one's life. If that person has some kind of "clutter-phobia" it may just be that the boxes will not have a sedentary life at all, but be ruthlessly shuffled about until they are either burned (my personal favorite), or hauled out to the dumpster, filled to brimming with garbage.
It would seem that I, being a little set in my ways, have no real issues with being surrounded by boxes for a short amount of time. They give the place a rough, un-carved look. It's almost like the potential has more emotional buoyancy than the neat sterility of tidy-ness. Like the promise of shaping the place to my liking is more uplifting than actually having it that way.