“Isn’t it strange that one always wants to do something with one’s love? Why is that? Wouldn’t it be sweet bliss for one at home in bed, in the darkness, to cry out from the sweet pain of one’s own solitude and from the incomprehensibility, the inexpressiveness of love? Of course, it would be sweet bliss. But the special quality of love is that it is not satisfied with sweet bliss. Love does not remain in one place.”

— Zinaida Nikolaevna Gippius

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