Sometimes we feel that all our previous life is not at all a cloud of dust or a vessel buried in the depths of us, but a living and impatient muscle in the depths of our body. That woman I loved years ago, even decades ago, no longer lives in this world –or in any other– but something from her body still flows through mine. That living trace (because I am alive when I write this sentence) was domiciled in the body that responds to my first and last name. More than the soul that emerges from it like an echo, every loved body dwells in the body where it does nothing more than occupy the place assigned to it from the moment its form agreed to be impregnated there. What I try to think is no different from what I have experienced and, above all, from what I want to continue living.

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You only love once. And we don't know it's the only time because we just discovered it.

Pascal Quignard