“Crisp scent of white narcissus: January, and full snow. (…) dreaming of sunlight,”— Margaret Atwood, from January in “The Door”
““Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don’t know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings.”
(Source: thelovejournals.com)
