A billion stars go spinning through the night, blazing high above your head. But in you is the presence that will be, when all the stars are dead.

It is part of the nature of every definitive love that sooner or later it can reach the beloved only in infinity.

Whoever you are, go out into the evening,
leaving your room, of which you know every bit;
your house is the last before the infinite,
whoever you are.

And these things
that keep alive on departure know that
you praise them; transient,
they look to us, the most transient,
to be their rescue.
They want us to change them completely,
in our invisible hearts,
into -- O endlessly -- us! Whoever,
finally, we may be.

I hold this to be the highest task for a bond between two people: that each protects the solitude of the other.

This is the miracle that happens every time to those who really love: the more they give, the more they possess.