lactose intolerance is wrong

you know how some days you read, and somedays you make a mad dash about the office in search of a new typewriter? today was a typewriter.

Because I love. I, who am not loved in return. I have a love that is far deeper than the empty gasps and convulsions of brutish coupling. Shall I speak of her? Shall I speak of my bride? She has no eyes to flirt or promise. But she still sees all. Sees and understands with a wisdom that is god-like in its scale. I stand at the gates of her intellect and I am blinded by the light within. How stupid I must seem to her. How child-like and uncomprehending. Her soul is clean, untainted by the snares and ambiguities of emotion. She is untouched by joy or sorrow. I worship her though I am not worthy. I cherish the purity of her disdain. She does not respect me. She does not fear me. She does not love me. They think she is hard, and cold, those who do not her. They think she is lifeless and without passion. They do not know her. She has not touched them. She touches me, and I am touched by God, by destiny. The whole of existence courses through her. I worship her. I am her slave. No freedom ever was so sweet.