So that science can exist, someone must examine, from at least one remove every single thing you see--- didn't you experience their love oddly and distantly? Theirs is the scientific impulse, a perfectionism we can never reach, though we kiss them and hold them, discuss life with them and walk hand in hand inside the narrow beach. The sand is not sand to them--- they resist every name--- by which we assume things are different, somewhat similar, or the same. He trips up your thinking by pointing out a fact so self-evident it puts what you knew in doubt. It is your thinking you finally love the most. Your thinking, the thinking of your friends. You need your thinking more than anything. You've never loved anyone like this. But the love ends.
