We make our way through Everything like thread passing through fabric, giving shape to images that we ourselves do not know.

That’s love: Two lonely persons keep each other safe and touch each other and talk to each other.

Whoever you are, go out into the evening, leaving your room, of which you know every bit; your house is the last before the infinite, whoever you are.

At no other time (than autumn) does the earth let itself be inhaled in one smell, the ripe earth; in a smell that is in no way inferior to the smell of the sea, bitter where it borders on taste, and more honeysweet where you feel it touching the first sounds. Containing depth within itself, darkness, something of the grave almost.

Be out of sync with your times for just one day, and you will see how much eternity you contain within you.

Comfort me from wherever you are–alone, we are quickly worn out; if I place my head on the road, let it seem softened by you. Could it be that even from afar we offer each other a gentle breath?

As the arrow endures the string, and in the gathering momentum becomes more than itself. Because to stay is to be nowhere.