What is this thing called love that tangles our hair, untidies our thoughts, stains our hands and lips and fills our journals with incoherent scribble? How old must we be to have put love in its small box, hoovered it out of our minds, opened insurance against its loss and forsaken the need for the taste and smell of it? What is this thing called life that oozes out of us, fills oceans with fish, inspires poems, and fears love more than the loss of itself? Was it God or some celestial programmer, who’d guessed we’d need a better cause to die than sliding off the edge, immaculate and grey? What is this thing called time that pushes us through life and takes away our love, bit by bit like a thief, leaving us empty? How old must we be to have untangled meaning, wrenched it out of our minds, stuffed it into things on the mantlepiece above the place where our fires used to burn?