If it was true that he was wiser than he knew then his wisdom delighted in smashing the cocoons that his avowed purposes and notions of understanding kept trying to weave between himself and the world - perhaps after first inciting them; in other words, it was indistinguishable from foolishness. His heart was not so unusual in being incapable of making any distinctions, it became what it saw, and so the point was to keep it from seeing anything, at least as much as he could. What could be known of the heart of another was one question, and how much could he bear to know, quite another. Grazing them - or why not, you - in passing something is exchanged, something neither expected nor desired by either party, but somehow needed and kept and consumed. An other's life is too vast to see into, but almost none of it would emerge in words and judgements, his own as well. These have their own purposes, but they fill the time, or distract the gaze, so that the oblique, the needed but undesired interchanges can take place. The heart is dark but like the sun it cannot be looked at directly, and so he would embed the order of the heart into that of the mind and its adjutant, desire. All courage is consumed just in living it every day and yet how eagerly he went for what he wanted, as if there really were enough love to go around. As if love were a kind of money that could be unlocked by finding yourself where it is most lacking.