I think it is all a matter of love...
The lost glove is happy.
...(hot, opalescent, thick tears that poets and lovers shed)...
There is only one real number: one. And love, apparently, is the best exponent of this singularity.
It was love at first sight, at last sight, at ever and ever sight.
I loved you. I was a pentapod monster, but I loved you. I was despicable and brutal, and turpid, and everything, mais je t’aimais, je t’aimais!
I think it is all a matter of love: the more you love a memory, the stronger and stranger it is.