#q

I find the mystery of passion the most beautiful thing in the world.

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- Fyodor Dostoyevsky...

Where are we really going? Home, always back home.

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I receive your consciousness, I unravel you this garden of palpitation, I offer your naked body to the roses,

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…the appalling face of a glimpsed truth—the strange commingling of desire and hate,

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The woods were very quiet—perfectly quiet.

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…as if all the sad light of the cloudy evening had taken refuge on her forehead.

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Yes, the nights are marvellous. Full moon, nightingales,

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…and I sat there and read which was very nice.

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After all books are the greatest help and comfort.

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Words are waves. You learn to swim from the seduction of a wave that wraps you in foam. Words have the rhythm of the sea and

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Pain keeps us company from a distance and howls like a siren,

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The early morning is lovely. I like to feel that I am in harmony with nature;

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Out of your fear of tomorrow. The past was born. Out of all that you feel, out of all the misery of the present, which

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…on soft nights when I lied with my window open,

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It was a perfect autumn morning – rich & warm & regretful,

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I’m losing grip of everything I clung to.

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Empty as a moonlit sky; and brilliant with light & sweet with flowers,

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She is a beautiful creature, whom I always connect in my mind with some very beautiful Greek statues.

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…the satisfaction of knowing something secret.

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…and I don’t like your question, please go away, because I miss the silence.

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…but beautiful places are often melancholy and very lonely.

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So soft, so melancholy, so wild,

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It has secretly craved such beauty. You don’t know, till you satisfy it, how much it has craved.

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