Yeah, I guess you could say it is love. Of a kind, anyway. A kind that takes a razor to your heart, producing therefrom the effigy of some exotic flower. And when, at last, the carving stops, the malevolent and salty sweat of the whole character of the thing collects like agonizing dew at the edges of the petals, just where the naive wounds are ragged; just where your deepest and purest vulnerability was laid bare…