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Romance takes place in the middle distance. Romance is looking in at yourself through a window clouded with dew. Romance means leaving things out: where life grunts and shuffles, romance only sighs.

Perhaps I write for no one. Perhaps for the same person children are writing for when they scrawl their names in the snow.

A truth should exist,it should not be usedlike this. If I love youis that a fact or a weapon?

We yearned for the future. How did we learn it, that talent for insatiability?

A home filled with nothing but yourself. It's heavy, that lightness. It's crushing, that emptiness.

Truly amazing, what people can get used to, as long as there are a few compensations.

Hatred would have been easier. With hatred, I would have known what to do. Hatred is clear, metallic, one-handed, unwavering; unlike love.

The Eskimo has fifty-names for snow because it is important to them; there ought to be as many for love.

A word after a word after a word is power.

This is how the girl who couldn't speak and the man who couldn't see fell in love.

I would like to be the air that inhabits you for a moment only. I would like to be that unnoticed and that necessary.

How could I be sleeping with this particular man.... Surely only true love could justify my lack of taste.