Sometimes, you read a book and it fills you with this weird evangelical zeal, and you become convinced that the shattered world will never be put back together unless and until all living humans read the book.
They say: You are the enchanting constellation twinkling and sparkling somewhere in the universe, still unexplored.
I say: They just saw the glimpse of your hanzel coloured eyes, the moment you were closing the window of your attic room, facing the street, and they fantasised of the constellation, yet unseen, unexplored, somewhere, in the universe.
i don’t think you first feel love on the lips. you feel it in the tips of your fingertips still red and raw from the snow, in the weight of a friend’s jacket wrapped around your shoulders to keep you warm, in the sound of wonder echoing across the mountain-tops. you feel it when the fog rolls in, obscuring the silhouettes of your fellow adventurers only to reveal them once more, human and alive and wondrous. love sinks into your veins from the outside in before it settles in your heart.