What can be more muddled than a heart that has wholly surrendered itself to reason?
Drafting a blueprint for love’s advancement is as futile as any attempt to enumerate precisely the number of stars beyond those we can already see – and doubtless a thousand times more foolish.
But it’s true, nonetheless, that the heart itself nearly always succumbs to its own kind of foolishness even apart from the head.
A foolish heart first breathed into the dust so long ago, only to set a course that cried out for love’s irresistible return. And return it did, even if reason itself would had suggested monstrous failure.
But the heart is like that