All that remains, in the aerial viscosity of the abstract street, is a thin thread of feelings, all external, like a strand of spit from stupid Fate, dripping drop by drop onto my awareness of being. We never truly love anyone. We only love the idea we form of someone. What we love is a concept forged by us — and in the end, it’s ourselves we love. Just as we wash our bodies, we should wash our fate, change lives as we change clothes. My fate may be, for all eternity, to be accountable, and poetry or literature may be nothing more than a butterfly landing on my forehead, making me feel all the more ridiculous for its beauty being so radiant. Fernando Pessoa