One November I began to fall deeply in love with a man who just yesterday told me to add tension to my linebreaks, challenge the readers, discomfort the empty spaces on the page. I am trying to listen, but there are so many rules in the world: one must not bend the spines of books, one must not talk about sex on public transport, one must watch out for the end of the moving walkway or else one falls. Sometimes I forget his words and I ask him ‘What did you say the other day that I said can be the title of my next poem?’ and he has an exaggerated look of mortification because he can’t recall. Without geological markers to identify directions we walk in circles. I encircle him and he me, buying each other the same books. Words are our reliable currency; so is time together. I have decided to not bother with linebreaks for three days.