Your heart is small. Your heart is big. Your heart is breaking. Your heart beats blood. Your heart feels too much. It feels too little. It feels though, and isn't that something. Your heart hunts alone, it hunts in packs, your heart is starving for love and attention and grief and other things. There is a hole in your heart. You put it there. I put it there. A loved one, someone you've never met, put it there. You fill your heart with food and sex and links. You fill it with little pictures of hearts. You fill it with pictures of thumbs and pictures of faces. You fill it any which way you can. Your heart is your child. It's hers. It's a dog. It's something someone said. No, not him, the other person, yes. Your heart belongs where anyone can access it, especially you, any time, day or night, rain or shine. You heart should become as your nose in its plainness and obviousness. Your heart is a quest. A mantra. A punchline. Your heart is everything, it is anything, it is nothing.
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