where the writers are
Suffering is the meat in a love sandwich

Lunch: two corn dogs. Fries. Bad stuff unwrapped from paper. What if we received our love this way, wrapped and soggy with lettuce, warmed by a lamp? What would be more important in the reception of that love? Would it be the love itself unmasked from paper or the lamp that warmed it before putting it in our mouths? What if you have no currency with which to purchase love? Can you cup your hand under that lamp and bring the red warmth to your lips? Use two hands. If you move too slow, however, all you end up doing is slapping yourself in the mouth with cold palms. Too fast and the same thing happens.

I suppose that is all silly. Comparing love to an order off a menu likely framed with a garish mascot clad in plastic. Those images are conjured in me by the Internet Literature I've been reading. It makes me think of rivets, plastic welds, toothpicks, clowns, and faces that can only make one shape at a time, as if solitary anger is a mask to which a face attempts to fit itself. There is value in all that.

I am guilty of hope. Hope would be a sin in the Internet Literature, if in fact, there can be a sin at all. It isn't a fact. The extreme application of this philosophy would be a mistake, I think. Many of the best things work tangentially and things that work tangentially and through inference are rarely concrete. These texts primarily seem to function on detail accumulation, a kind of growing force of tidbit that eventually -- and I think many would hate this -- sway a reader to a mood, idea, or belief. I suppose in that way they do work tangentially, again, a thing several of them would likely hate. Most of the texts that I've read thus far are all spare prose yearning for meaning. There is a welling bleakness in these works and words. That can be employed to great use.

Suffering is the easiest thing to be honest about in writing. So is detachment. They are easy topics. I write about them too because I am lazy. Suffering is the meat in a love sandwich. I'd like my super-sized, please, with a side of tenderness. Hold the lettuce.