Today I strain away from the typical quotes I send you, going back a few millennia so that I can recite to you what Plato once said: «Every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back. Those who wish to sing always find a song. At the touch of a lover, everyone becomes a poet. »
And, indeed, poetry seems to flow through my fingers onto paper as I mindlessly write about you and the song you sing, which is half of my own.