I love you as one loves certain dark things.
One magician demanded I show him an image of the love of his life. I rustled up a mirror.
I do love I know not what; Sometimes this, and sometimes that.
A heat full of coldness, a sweet full of bitterness, a pain full of pleasantness, which maketh thoughts have eyes and hearts ears, bred by desire, nursed by delight, weaned by jealousy, kill'd by dissembling, buried by ingratitude, and this is love.
Love . . . is like nature, but in reverse; first it fruits, then it flowers, then it seems to wither, then it goes deep, deep down into its burrow, where no one sees it, where it is lost from sight, and ultimately people die with that secret buried inside their souls.
There are women who love their husbands as blindly, as enthusiastically, and as enigmatically as nuns their cloister.
Love is mysterious and rad, like Steve Perry from Journey
