It’s easy to smile at the Moon, harder at the Sun. The reflected light of the former gently hits all kinds of eyes, stars dotting the dark expanse all around it, or clouds passing through, their real color unknown to our spectrum. The Sun makes it all much harder, your face ends up all scrunched up, eyes squinting, as if something else was there to decipher. Is Love a Sun or a Moon? What do I want Love to be in the end? Galehot brought Lancelot and Guinevere together and he thought he was doing his friend a good turn, but they never should have kissed, and those old novels are mostly incoherent in their development from beginning till end. Then while Streisand defended her right to be a woman in love, it was over timeless songs in a castle in southern France, there to recreate the Middle Ages, without the wild, without the irrational, for dazed travellers. Time never cuts it quite right, does it?, and the longer a kiss is held, the more it seems to us to be of any worth. But if eternity is in the moment, as we’re gratified to quote from Spinoza, then duration shouldn’t matter. It’s a trap we like, apparently.