Which is a sad thing to see first thing on a Monday morning because the world needs more love than humanity is currently generating. It’s written in a strange way too; at the end of each word the pen slides back, putting a squiggle through each word as if the author isn’t quite sure that what they write is the truth or that they don’t want it to be true. The thing is, once one has written something down, it is out there in the world and is on its way to becoming truer than it ma have been before. Especially if it’s written in the dingy tunnel at New Cross station and read on a cold Monday morning.
Once that magic has worked what you have to do is move on.