Maybe it's wrong when we remember breakthroughs to our own being as something that occurs in discrete, extraordinary moments. Maybe falling in love, the piercing knowledge that we ourselves will someday die, and the love of snow are in reality not some sudden events; maybe they were always present. Maybe they never completely vanish, either.

Love has something to do with recognition, We can be fascinated by the unknown, we can be attracted by it, but love is something that grows, slowly, in an atmosphere of trust.

Pienso en él sin camisa. A la luz de la lámpara. A la luz de las velas del árbol de Navidad. A la luz del gato ardiendo. Abandono el pensamiento. Vuelve a mí. Hay pensamientos que están impregnados de cola de pegar

No matter how close people get, they never reach each other. Including us now. Even now, there's a place where each of us is alone.

Insgeheim wächst in jeder blinden, kopflosen Verliebtheit der Hass auf den Geliebten, der den einzigen Schlüssel zum Glück besitzt.

Deep within every blind, absolute love grows a hatred toward the beloved, who now holds the only existing key to happiness

Perhaps it's true that love is eternal. But it's appearance changes all the time.

There can be great depths of love that are not reciprocated.

The greatest performances where when fingertips took away a very thin veil between people and uncovered the universe in its entirety.