Whatever else is unsure in this stinking dunghill of a world a mother's love is not.

Why is it that words like these seem dull and cold? Is it because there is no word tender enough to be your name?

We are born of love; Love is our mother.

My body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires.

His heart danced upon her movements like a cork upon a tide. He heard what her eyes said to him from beneath their cowl and knew that in some dim past, whether in life or revery, he had heard their tale before.

Love is an indescribable sensation - perhaps a conviction, a sense of certitude.