nitimur in vetitum.

I overflowed the bounds of myself although quite where I don't know, and there I lay stagnant and useless. I am some thing that I once was. I cannot find myself when I feel and if I go looking for myself, I don't know who it is looking for me. [...] I feel like an exile from my own soul.

To kill our dream is to kill ourselves. It is like mutilating our soul. The dream is what is most truly, impenetrably, ineradicably ours.

I will make myself a poet out of the act of dreaming you, and my prose, when it describes your beauty, will contain the rhythms of poetry, the curves of strophes, the sudden splendours to be found in immortal verses.

My love, scatter me with the petals from your finest roses, your most perfect lilies, chrysanthemum petals that smell of the melody of your name.

... those hours when the landscape forms a halo around life...

A tenuous pane of glass stands between me and life. However clearly I see and understand life, I cannot touch it.

How could I not dream you? How could I not?

I could be ashes in your hearth, what does it matter if I am mere dust Or a window in your room, what does it matter if I am mere empty space? Or an hour in your hourglass, what does it matter if I pass, if, because I am yours, I will endure; what does it matter if I die if, because I am yours, I will not die, or if I lose you, if losing you means finding you?

Perhaps my dreaming you was simply finding you, perhaps my loving you was simply seeing you.

Perhaps by dreaming you, I am creating a real you, but in another reality; perhaps you will be mine there, in that other purer worlds, where we will love each other but never touch, with a different kind of embrace and other more essential ways of possessing one another?