musing

“They grope before them like blind people and find each the other as they would a door. Almost like children that dread the night, they press close into each other. And yet they are not afraid. There is nothing that might be against them: no yesterday, no morrow; for time is shattered. And they flower from its ruins.
He does not ask: 'Your husband?'
She does not ask: 'Your name?'
For indeed they have found each other, to be unto themselves a new generation.
They will give each other a hundred new names and take them all off again, gently, as one takes an earring off.”
― Rainer Maria Rilke, Die Weise von Liebe und Tod des Cornets Christoph Rilke

“But words are things, and a small drop of ink,      
Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think;      
’T is strange, the shortest letter which man uses
Instead of speech, may form a lasting link      
Of ages; to what straits old Time reduces
Frail man, when paper — even a rag like this,
Survives himself, his tomb, and all that’s his.”
― George Gordon Byron, Don Juan