"Which one of us, in his moments
has not dreamed of a miracle of poetic prose,
musical without rhythm and without rhyme,
supple enough and rugged enough to adapt itself
to the lyrical impulses of the soul, the undulations of reverie,
the jibes of conscience?"
"How fortunate is the world that it does not depend on
How fortunate am I that you keep watering the stem of our love,
even when it withers, even when it has nothing to give."
-- Ruth Behar
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