Socrates didn't start off Socrates. The first cause remains mysterious even now. We can sit together by the side of the road not talking for a thousand years.
A horse and a dog are roughly the same? We stand at the river's edge and laugh with Heraclitus. Flakes of snow, slow-spiraling stars.
This morning's moon was so lovely I almost cried and even changed the walk so that I could see it steadily through the trees so soft and yellow and - forgive me - so loving. The dog is silent too. A sort of blue pervades the dusk, forever a recollection.
If you want conflict you've got it. Chocolate? I floated like an indifferent balloon, dreaming of Paris, forever recalcitrant.
Forever a mendicant? Hesitation is his style as is calling it a style. I poured myself out and was left with an empty container which scared . . . who?
She woke to cats, made tea and we talked about speech defects. A thousand miles away, awaiting a storm. Your rose, my voluminous correspondence.
I mean that he asked a question and made space for the other to answer. You have to see that what you thought was love is not and then it starts.