Lover: one who loves, the one … (Marina Tsvetaeva)

Lover: one who loves, the one through whom is revealed the love, the wire elements of Love. Can be in the same bed, and maybe a thousand miles. Love is not a “relationship”, and like a force of nature.

Thanks to those who loved me, for they have given me the beauty of loving others, and thank you to those who didn’t, for they have given me the beauty of love itself.

Because to understand another — so that others at least for an hour become.

Fun — easy — I think I never will be, and it’s not my property.

Life in a passionate, from my relationship to You of the lives are gone: urgency. My love to You (and it is and will be) quiet. The alarm will go away from You, from Your pain, Oh, between these people is not so important: who hurts!

Music: through the soul into the body. — Through the body to the soul: love.

All love the transaction. The skin for the money. The skin for the skin. The skin of the soul. When you do not get neither one nor the other, nor the third, even a dolt-merchant as I terminate the loan.

What is the confession? To boast of their vices! Who could talk about their pain without being intoxicated, i.e., happiness?!

For full consistency consistency shower necessary of breath, because that breath is not a rhythm of the soul?So, so that people understand each other, it is necessary that they walked or lay next.

My generation — knee.

Sad to say, but good we only with those in whose eyes even can anything to gain or lose.

I can’t stop thinking about her, so I can’t serve.

What I want from you, Rainer? Nothing. Just. To you let me every moment of my life to look for you — as a top, which protects (a stone guardian angel!). While I didn’t know it was possible, but now that I know you, seeking approval.For my soul’s well-mannered.

God created man only to Talia’s, — over the rest of tried to the Devil.

Stupid loneliness from the fact that no one remembered your name day (17th of July — I don’t remember!)

Books have given me more than people. The memory of man always pales before the memory of the book.

All people cherished my poems, no one my soul.

French women don’t hesitate to open the neck and shoulders (and chest) in front of men, but too shy to do it in front of the sun.

Snowflakes are heavenly salamanders.