May I kiss you then? On this miserable paper? I might as well open the window and kiss the night air.

Love is a drama of contradictions.

And actually it is not you at all I love, but rather the existence you have bestowed on me

You are the knife I turn inside myself; that is love. That, my dear, is love.

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

I long for you; I who usually longs without longing, as though I am unconscious and absorbed in neutrality and apathy, really, utterly long for every bit of you.

It occurs to me that I really can't remember your face in any precise detail. Only the way you walked away through the tables in the café, your figure, your dress, that I still see.

I always succeed in not being jealous but only sometimes in comprehending the pointlessness of jealousy.

By your side I’m most quiet and most unquiet, most inhibited and most free.