Our conscience exists somehow between the facts of borders and the absolute of idea. In the 2012 general election it spoke, re-electing a black president, assigning a record number of senate seats to women, a record of congressional seats to so-called "minorities." In a state's popular vote allowing gays to marry. In this somehow, if not somewhere, on a given day a majority ruled by conscience.
Who votes, lives, writes, paints, marries, educates, worries, shoots hoops, bakes, bus-drives, plans, fosters, by their conscience, wins for all. The nay-sayers and haters lost; others won, and for all, including those who have not found a way. It is not news to win for all, but it is ever-fresh and true, once we pause and listen inwardly, acknowledging that right to agree with all, forever.
If I say no, it is for once and is a turning away. But we do not say no. We say yes, and yes. We say yes for all, not for ourselves, but for others. This is the form. The form is the somehow of what we refer to, sometimes, as America, who won.
The always is every day. In the morning and at night. I know nothing more and can go no deeper than to say this. If it is now, I can say now. I cannot say then or sometime. As now, yes. You say yes, I say yes, and yes, for you told me so.
You said love. I say you said love. What is lost is form in transit; what is won is form in love. Somehow between the facts of law and border, and the impurity of the absolute. By impure, I mean that which excludes. Between the twin circles of right and exact, love wins.