Dead love is a terrible thing, lying stone cold on the hearth of our minds without any movement or sign of life. But living love can seem dead. It experiences its own comas.

The reality of what is lovable awakens it.

We could not possibly keep before us what we have perceived about the people we love any more than we could preserve intact the vision of spring when it is winter. Love is nothing without memory and memory sleeps.

One day we awaken and we are standing at the cottage door. Beyond lies the ocean and the wild moor. We remember.

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