From Words to Love to You

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I love the music of language, of words strung together to create a song. Once, I jokingly complained to close friends that men today lacked poetry.

I don't expect men to shit poems per se. I want a storyteller. A man who can reveal himself, consciously or not, through syntax, diction, and meter.

Am I asking too much? Am I being a snob? It's not like I need someone to be book-smart. I just want to be touched by the rhythms of their voice, see the beauty in their personality as it's revealed through words.

This is probably why it's so difficult for me to pin down my type. I feel love or attraction through words, through art, through a desire for expertise.

But I can also uncover horror through those same words. The horror of a controlling personality, for instance. As so often happens when studying literature, discovering that part of the text takes time, and I'm already lost when I've illuminated my mistake, buried beneath the masks I've pulled off to see the monster underneath. 

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