The words we read and words we write never say exactly what we mean. The people we love are never just as we desire them. The two symbola never perfectly match. Eros is in between.
The man has a theory. The woman has hipbones. Here comes Death.
Desire doubled is love and love doubled is madness.
He was trying to fit this Herakles onto the one he knew.
A page with a poem on it is less attractive than a page with a poem on it and some tea stains.
I never really got over the fun of making letters.