Now that my love had no object I was aware of it in a new way. It was much larger than I had thought—huge—slow and sensitive, like a great jellied creature floating around in me, bumping up against fear or doubt or narcissism and bouncing off, gently bruised, toward a corner that might be more accommodating. I had to find a place for it, but it was too big, too alien. And what good was my love, anyway? A love in which I had lied and hoped, by way of lying, to be redeemed? What good I could create in myself was unrecognizable.
