When you love someone all your saved up wishes start coming out.
Pity the selfishness of lovers: it is brief, a forlorn hope; it is impossible.
Only in a house where one has learnt to be lonely does one have this solicitude for things. One's relation to them, the daily seeing or touching, begins to become love, and to lay one open to pain.
But surely love wouldn't get so much talked about if there were not something in it?
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