"Love is a shambling thing, gray-faced and gasping. It moves in from the west, the setting sun behind it. Those who see it avert their eyes. Love stumbles and shutters, love grasps but is not grasped. It sees a man, and the man does not look away. Love reaches out a gray hand. The man touches the band just lightly, just on the palm, and the man feels heat inside of him. His heart is on fire. This is not a metaphor. His heart is on fire and so, soon, is his skin, his hair, his teeth become more and more visible as his face shrinks and melts away. Love watches dispassionately. Love does not love what it does, love only does it. Love does not have eyes and neither, now, does the man."