the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses

life is a question of nerves, and fibres, and slowly built-up cells in which thought hides itself and passion has its dreams. you may fancy yourself safe and think yourself strong but a chance tone of colour in a room or a morning sky, a particular perfume that you had once loved and that brings subtle memories with it, a line from a forgotten poem that you had come across again, a cadence from a piece of music that you had ceased to play…
it's on things like these that our lives depend

oscar wilde