Today God gives milk / and I have the pail.

As it has been said: Love and a cough cannot be concealed. Even a small cough. Even a small love.

I am so imperfect, can you love me when really my soul is deformed? Will you love me anyhow?

Suicide is, after all, the opposite of the poem.

Not that it was beautiful, but that I found some order there.

In a letter (no matter how quickly it is written or honestly or freely or lovingly) it is more possible to be loving and lovable, more possible to reach out and to take in ... I feel I have somehow deceived you into thinking this is really a human relationship. It is a letter relationship between humans.

To be without God is to be a snake / who wants to swallow an elephant.