Diary,

 

I refuse to overuse the word love. I feel so much like if I were to use it as casually and precariously as does nearly Everyone around me it would dash All significance out of it when I Really mean it. There are other words, you know, that describe the difference in feelings that there is when something less than Love is there, but Love, I feel, is the Only word which Reaches into the Caverns of my Heart and Really communicates in Some sincerity the Gentleness that is there when Love within its Fullness really exists.

 

Don and I have, in younger years, had playful communications with each other about which of us loved the other more. I now dare not even so much as think, let alone assert in any way at all, that there is Any difference in the amount of love between us that is measurable at all. If I love, Diary, and if I am loved back, that is, in its Simplicity, the Grandest Extravagance of which I can conjecture. It is dwarfed into something less than that Great Love when it is not accepted as it is and wont to be measured out and divided into parts instead.

 

-I do not Ever, *even once*, love him more or less than he does me, Diary, nor does he Ever return more nor Ever return less of the Love I have for him, even in the times when One of us is in All Reality unable to give back to the other Quite as much. Love for us, Diary, is a never-ending, continuous, and Ever-flowing Fount of Give and Take: we keep no record of wrongs; no measurements of mistakes. We simply Love, and in that lies Every Goodness and Exalting Glory of which we have Ever felt flowing out from one another.