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Contributor: O. Leary
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This is another love story.

You know the type. You know the tired rhythms like yesterday’s overplayed music. You know all the patterns, you know where it all comes from and where it goes. You’ve seen it all before, the falling in love, the poems of loss, denied love, crushes crashed and dashed and gone stale after marriages stopped (or unstopped) by desperate admirers. It’s all the same isn’t it? All the same story? Just love in all its forms expressed through repetition, experiences ground through the massive factory of literary humanity. Some say love is dead. I say love is pastiche’, passe’, cliche’. Love stories are the stories we all can tell. They’re the stories we all have read, and there isn’t a shred of uniqueness in them anymore.

Or. . .

Is there?

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If you know anything about me, it is that you know nothing about me.
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