A writer’s love is like a tree on a lonely roadside, with no one to feel or soothe away pain.
When the tree waves its leaves in calm winds, it says a lot, but it is lonely. And when the stubborn storms shove it back and forth, it stands but broken inside, with one more hope to spare. But love—love itself is strange. It has created the best tales. Loneliness has wandered far, giving only desire to the desirous. The love one seeks lies inside that which brings joy to one’s heart and smiles to others’ faces.