Lost in the solitude of his immense power, he began to lose direction.

Then he made one last effort to search in his heart for the place where his affection had rotted away, and he could not find it.

Blood circulated through her veins with the fluidity of a song that branched off into the most hidden areas of her body and returned to her heart, purified by love.

She let him finish, scratching his head with the tips of her fingers, and without his having revealed that he was weeping from love, she recognized immediately the oldest sobs in the history of man.

Nobody is worth crying for, and those that are worth it will not make you cry.

He recognized her despite the uproar, through his tears of unrepeatable sorrow at dying without her, and he looked at her for the last and final time with eyes more luminous, more grief-stricken, more grateful than she had ever seen them in half a century of a shared life, and he managed to say to her with his last breath: “Only God knows how much I loved you

Ultimately, literature is nothing but carpentry.