If love is a stranger then strange love is strange indeed. Love is not a bargain built on what you give you get in return but flows fully formed unconditionally. Through the eye of a needle. Up the leg of a camel. Throughout bliss and basement blues. Along narrow times when times tick timourously. When heaven holds you in the grip of its gentle hand. When hell hordes the spirit in an icy chill. Love is immortal. Love is moral. Should morality decline as when politics ascend then love returns the base notes, the high notes to the pinnacle of life. Love is beyond the grasp of those selling love in shady shops or dingy dungeons deep dripping with desire. Love doesn't desire. Love isn't desiring. Love doesn't know it is knowledge itself. The poetical soul doesn't love it is love itself. Love is unconditional.
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