Nothing unites two people so completely, especially if, like you and me, all they have is words.

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I'm thinking only of my illness and my health, though both, the first as well as the second, are you.

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Should I be grateful or should I curse the fact that despite all misfortune I can still feel love, an unearthly love but still for earthly objects.

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In a way, you are poetry material; You are full of cloudy subtleties I am willing to spend a lifetime figuring out. Words burst in your essence and you carry their dust in the pores of your ethereal individuality.

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I�m tired, can�t think of anything and want only to lay my face in your lap, feel your hand on my head and remain like that through all eternity.

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You are at once both the quiet and the confusion of my heart; imagine my heartbeat when you are in this state.

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That's the way it is when you love. It makes you suffer, and I have suffered much in the years since. But it matters little that you suffer, so long as you feel alive with a sense of the close bond that connects all living things, so long as love does not die!

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Love is like death. It is fulfillment and an evening after which nothing more may follow.

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Love can be begged, bought, or received as a gift, one can find it in the street, but one cannot steal it.

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"Love must not entreat," she added, "or demand. Love must have the strength to become certain within itself. Then it ceases merely to be attracted and begins to attract."

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