I only have you now, only you who have lived with me, and you that I have always loved.
You used to be my everything and now you are mine.
I beg you to listen to me for a quarter of an hour, don't get tired, I love you all my life and never feel tired!
I listen to and spy on your actions with a feverish curiosity, or I don't know in my child's mind, this curiosity is already love.
But I believe that no woman has ever loved you as blindly and selflessly as I have. I will always be faithful to you, for nothing in the world is better than the love that a child secretly carries, because it is so hopeless, condescending, condescending, low-pitched, and passionate, and it is not the same as the fiery, instinctively provocative love of adult women.
Everything in the world exists only because it has something to do with you, and everything in my life is meaningful only if it is connected to you.
But I waited, waited, waited for you, as if waiting for my destiny.
Because thinking about falling in love with someone else instead of falling in love with you, even if it's just a joke about love, I think it's unheard of and incomprehensible, and in my opinion, being seduced is already a crime.
But in my mind, this thing is nothing more than—how can you expect it—into a wish of words, a thousand days and nights of condensation, and now suddenly bursting forth.
You, you never recognized me, you walked past me like you were walking by a river, you stepped on me like stepping on a stone, you always walked, kept walking, but let me spend my life waiting.
If my death would have made you miserable, I would not have died.
How much I used to love you, and you didn't have a single burden on that love.
He felt a death, felt immortal love. For a moment his heart was full of mixed feelings, and he thought of the invisible woman, no substance, full of passion, like music in the distance.