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Last night brought a crucial personal enlightenment. Up until now wishful thinking has kept me blindfolded but, as Poirot says, “The truth, it has the habit of revealing itself.” The truth isn’t as spectacular as it is in Agatha Christie’s elaborated plots; no. Nevertheless it is vital for me. I will never have the Love. Or any for that matter. What love requires-I can not do it. Or maybe I can but it’s unlikely someone would be willing to be that patient with me until I eventually figure that out. So this is it. Pity, for I do believe love to be the only compensation for the brutality of life one can hope for. Ah, I have no idea if I’m still capable of loving anyone to begin with; anyone human that is. Like the troubled dogs at the shelter-you have to constantly give them all your affection not knowing if they will ever open their hearts for you.