The devil may be in the details, but so are the angels if you know where to look

It didn't matter how sweet the cookies freshly baked in Plath's oven tasted nor the overdue gas bill vandalized by a poem waiting for a reply. It didn't matter how many bulls eyes Hemingway's shotgun scored despite trembling hands that could write no more when all anyone could speak of was its final target. Yet the little details continually struggle to remind us that the world was broken long before our hearts had ever cracked and despite this for hearts to endure.

Such are my thoughts, Babe as I brush your cookie crumbs from the bed and my finger traces the ring your cup left in the dust atop my dresser.