There is no heart here. If there is one, it beats irregularly.What wakes to the call of the day meets the same fate as he
who refuses to rouse from sleep, a dream or body holding inplace that whose fate lies somewhere else but draws close with
the passing of time. The heart that beats on its own, or becauseit is tugged, lends a paradigm that obstructs the truth its subject
begs to know. Yes, the heart can be a shallow pond. Or a river orocean that knows the depth of love.Plato's Caves