Women want everything of a lover. And too often I would sink below the surface. So armies disappear under sand. And there was her fear of her husband, her belief in her honour, my old desire for self-sufficiency, my disappearances, her suspicions of me, my disbelief that she loved me. The paranoia and claustrophobia of hidden love.

all this Beethoven and rain

I have to teach myself not to read too much into everything. It comes from too long having to read into hardly anything at all.

From this point on, she whispered, we will either find or lose our souls.

All I desired was to walk upon such an earth that had no maps.

I want to die on your chest but not yet she wrote sometime in the 13th century of our love

Every night I cut out my heart. But in the morning it was full again