“Dear Milena,

I wish the world were ending tomorrow. Then I could take the next train, arrive at your doorstep in Vienna, and say: “Come with me, Milena. We are going to love each other without scruples or fear or restraint. Because the world is ending tomorrow.” 

Perhaps we don’t love unreasonably because we think we have time, or have to reckon with time. But what if we don't have time? Or what if time, as we know it, is irrelevant? 

Ah, if only the world were ending tomorrow. We could help each other very much.”

“I can’t feel a thing; All mournful petal storms are dancing inside the very private spring of my head.”

“When one is alone, imperfection must be endured every minute of the day; a couple, however, does not have to put up with it.

Aren’t our eyes made to be torn out, and our hearts for the same purpose?

At the same time it’s really not that bad; that’s an exaggeration and a lie, everything is exaggeration, the only truth is longing.

But even the truth of longing is not so much its own truth; it’s really an expression for everything else, which is a lie. This sounds crazy and distorted, but it’s true.




Moreover, perhaps it isn’t love when I say you are what I love the most - you are the knife I turn inside myself, this is love. This, my dear, is love.”

In the language of love

, we simply call it "home".

.