Isn't that what love means, to fill ordinary, commonplace, conventional things with magic and significance, not to need the moon and white scent-heavy flowers at night?

What you possess is not what you jingle in the pockets of your memory, but the imaginings with which you fill the spaces of the future.

The moon looks upon many night flowers; the night flowers see but one moon.

Why don't people take the trouble to let you know that they are alive? It is so much more important. The whole system is wrong. No sooner do I die, than all the flowers I have ever longed for in life pour in.

To some people, the impossible is impossible. One fine day, they wake up in the morning knowing that they will never hold the moon in their hands, and with the certainty, perfect peace descends on them.

I'd love to be approached to do ordinary things more.