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It happened so often—beautiful things had stupid names, and the other way around.
To her, existence consisted of days, and each day seemed to run like a circular ribbon—or, better yet, a bike chain, moving evenly over the cogs. Click—another change of speed, days became a little different, but they still flowed, still repeated, and that very monotony concealed the meaning of life . . .
Vita nostra . . . “Our life is brief, / It will shortly end; / Death comes quickly.”
But no one had ever been saved by memories, no one had been protected by words and pledges, and those loved greatly by others died too.
Love is not when you are aroused by someone, it’s when you are afraid for that person.
