"When I write, I feel like an armless, legless man with a crayon in his mouth." Kurt Vonnegut In an armless, legless world of my own, lit only by a desk lamp, a drug addict prays to God for love, a woman loses love in the tragic throes of dementia, brutal men twist love into something else, a sociopath poisons love. Love is surrendered in an attic room, love is remembered and longed for years after it was gently thrown down, love is realized in rain beating down on the hood of a car trapped in traffic. While I write with a blue crayon, an artist decides that love is orange, and paints it that way with mannerist brush strokes on a carefully stretched canvass. It has seemed to me that almost everything eventually begins and ends with some kind of love. D. J. Andersen