“To be with you or not to be with you is the measure of my time.
Already the pitcher breaks on the fountain, already the man stands up at the voice of the bird, already those who look at the windows are darkened but the shadow has not brought peace.
It is, I know well, love: the anxious desire to hear his voice, the expectation and the memory, the horror of living in succession.
It’s love with its mythologies, with its little useless magics.
There is a street corner where I dare not pass.
Already the armies surround me, the hordes.
(This room is unreal, she hasn’t seen it.)
The name of a woman denounces me.
I have a woman’s pain all over my body.  » (Jorge Luis Borges)