Love is now, is always. All that is missing is the coup de grâce- which is called passion.

Love is so much more deadly than I had thought, love is so much inherent as the very lack, and we are guaranteed by a need to be renewed continuously. Love is now, is forever. There is just the blow of grace - call it passion.

Holding someone's hand was always my idea of joy.

I, who called love my hope for love.

No it is not easy to write. It is as hard as breaking rocks. Sparks and splinters fly like shattered steel.

For only when I err do I get away from what I know and what I understand. If "truth" were what I can understand, it would end up being but a small truth, my-sized. Truth must reside precisely in what I shall never understand.

I want the following word: splendor, splendor is fruit in all its succulence, fruit without sadness. I want vast distances. My savage intuition of myself.