Sonnet XVIII do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.

I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never bloomsbut carries in itself the light of hidden flowersthanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.

I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or prideso I love you because I know no other way than this: where I does not exist, nor you,so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

Pablo Neruda

Lost opportunities, lost possibilities, feelings we can never get back.

That's part of what it means to be alive.

But inside our heads - at least that's where I imagine it - there's a little room where we store those memories.

A room like the stacks in this library.

And to understand the workings of our own heart we have to keep on making new reference cards.

We have to dust things off every once in awhile, let in fresh air, change the water in the flower vases.

In other words, you'll live forever in your own private library.

Kafka on the Shore, Haruki Murakami