I used to think that love was a feeling brought on by other people. When I got that feeling, I would be generous to my lover, but secretly I would dread the day that he would stop giving me that feeling. I would say, “I love you,” but I really meant, “Don’t leave me.” With each failed relationship, my definition of love would warp slightly. Suddenly after my mask came off, love was all that mattered. I knew it like a child knows that she can walk. There was only one problem. Although I knew I wanted it more than anything I’d ever wanted, I still didn’t know what it was. I wanted answers and I wanted them badly. At this point, I started carrying a voice recorder with me. Everywhere I went, my question went with me. I asked, “What is love?” in hopes of, one day, running into a definition that made any sense to me. This went on for several months. After months of furious obsession, during which I consumed hundreds of ideas from just as many sources, clarity came to me in the strangest of packages.