If it wasn’t for love, I’d be out of business. whether or not through disappointment, pain, betrayal, abandonment or the continued struggle to stay it alive, love fuels each letter to my mailbox. you would possibly imagine that such employment, exposed weekly to the wasted landscape of our broken dreams, would flip someone to pessimism or dangerous thoughts. Instead my correspondents’ agonies supply American state comfort: access to the intimate detail of others’ lives systematically proves that our greatest incentive, what we’re consumed by down the decades, isn’t cash, success, power or maybe plain survival, however finding a secure place wherever we tend to feel protected by the embrace of these we tend to love