On the path of Love we are neither masters nor the owners of our lives. We are only a brush in the hand of the Master Painter.
Tels are the rubbish heaps of history. Syria is full of them, mounds and mounds of history lying around, each one consisting of dead layers of civilization superimposed one upon the other - Sumerian, Hittite, Greek, Roman. As we scrambled up the side of the mound the sound of pieces of Roman pottery crunching underfoot accompanied us. With each stumbling step a little more destruction, a little more ruin, a little more of the past gone for ever.
— Cleopatra’s Wedding Present - Robert Tewdwr Moss
You are here, intangible and you are all the universe which I shape into the space of my room. Your absence springs trembling in the ticking of the clock, in the pulse of light; you breathe through the mirror. From you to my hands, I caress your entire body, and I am with you for a minute and I am with myself for a moment. And my blood is the miracle which runs in the vessels of the air from my heart to yours.
— Frida Kahlo to Diego Rivera (via myarmisnotalilactree)