Love is also a violence, and cannot be undone.

Even if you have loved only once in your life, you're ruined.

Hands have their own language.

Language is like drinking from one's own reflection in still water. We only take from it what we are at the time.

Love is also a violence, and cannot be undone.

I think we keep these moments of rejection and acceptance very close. I think we carry them always, like cracked shells from which a part of us once hatched.

Could it be that first love was the only true love? And that after those first fires had been doused or burned out, men and women chose whom they would love based on worldly needs, and then reenacted the rituals and feelings of that first pure experience - nursed the flames that once burned of their own accord