Love is a hand strumming the chords of reality; the vibrations thereof are feelings. Life revolves around this plunking; enthusiastic plucking of the chords is indeed the essence of joy, and lethargic playing, the root of dismalness.
Love is a piano, the symphony of which is joyous, but the young hands playing always manage to get hurt. Who knows the perfect keys to combine; who has the patience to play the whole symphony; who knows how to read the notes?
Love is the color of beauty, the lips of desire, the sound of needy beings.
Love is a clothes moth feeding on our cloaks of security.
Love is mania; amantes sunt amentes.
Adonis