His embrace was my drug of choice, and as any addict knew, one sampling was way too many and a thousand never enough.
Every satisfaction he attains lays the seeds of some new desire, so that there is no end to the wishes of each individual will.
Passionate love is a quenchless thirst.
there is a place in the heart that will never be filled a space and even during the best moments and the greatest times times we will know it we will know it more than ever there is a place in the heart that will never be filled and we will wait and wait in that space.
the truly covetous have never enough!
Melancholy: an appetite no misery satisfies.
Who is the covetous man? One for whom plenty is not enough.
I want more than what I want. (Vina Apsara)
No utopia can ever give satisfaction to everyone, all the time. As their material conditions improve, men raise their sights and become discontented with power and possessions that once would have seemed beyond their wildest dreams. And even when the external world has granted all it can, there still remain the searchings of the mind and the longings of the heart.
I hurt with the insatiate longing, until I feel that there will never be any relief until I take a long, deep, wild draught on your lips.
After all, what was the whole wide world but a place for people to yearn for their heart's impossible desires, for those desires to become entrenched in defiance of logic, plausibility, and even the passage of time, as eternal as polished marble.
Desire has no history.
Oh! might I kiss those eyes of fire, A million scarce would quench desire; Still would I steep my lips in bliss, And dwell an age on every kiss; Nor then my soul should sated be, Still would I kiss and cling to thee: Nought should my kiss from thine dissever, Still would we kiss and kiss for ever; E'en though the numbers did exceed The yellow harvest's countless seed; To part would be a vain endeavour: Could I desist? -ah! never-never.
Is not dread of thirst when your well is full, the thirst that is unquenchable?
To pursue a goal which is by definition unattainable is to condemn oneself to a state of perpetual unhappiness.
Nothing remains but desire, and desire comes howling down Elysian Fields like a mistral.
Imaginary pains are by far the most real we suffer, since we feel a constant need for them and invent them because there is no way of doing without them.
Love fills and empties simultaneously. It makes us reach out to God, ready to be pruned, recklessly desiring whatever the cost. It soothes the aching heart and then makes it thirst for more.
