I'm sure Proust was a big bore.

...there was a blond misty boy sitting beside me, and he looked at me, and I at him, and we were not strangers: our hands moved towards each other to embrace. I never heard his voice, for we did not speak; it is a shame, I should so like the memory of it. Loneliness, like fever, thrives on night, but there with him light broke, breaking in the trees like birdsong, and when sunrise came, he loosened his fingers from mine, and walked away, that misty boy, my friend.

Wrinkles and bones, white hair and diamonds: I can't wait.

Just remember: If one bird carried every grain of sand, grain by grain, across the ocean, by the time he got them all on the other side, that would only be the beginning of eternity.

The wind is us-- it gathers and remembers all our voices, then sends them talking and telling through the leaves and the fields.

Gasping for breath, the body still battling for life.

Really being friends is the most important part, I think, of any relationship.