There was once a Christian Cassanova (almost an oxymoron) whose path in life was strewn with the wreckage of so many hearts that he had broken in his hey days. But when the time came at the turn in the path for his own heart to be broken, as it surely had to come sooner or later, when that bitter-fateful day came as it had to, it was indeed a compound break, a shattering in as many inflamed places in his heart as there were the smokey-sad scenes of wrecks along the path, littering the paths of his life and their lives where they intersected. It was, afer all, the compound fracture of a fairy tale. And what fairy tale you may ask. The tale of the princely delusion that human hearts like laws only exist to be broken by the privileged likes of him or her for whom it is so convenient to do so.
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