I want you to know one thing. You know how this is: if I look at the
crystal moon, at the red branch of the slow autumn at my window, if I
touch near the fire the impalpable ash or the wrinkled body of the
log, everything carries me to you, as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals, were little boats that sail toward those isles
of yours that wait for me. Well, now, if little by little you stop
loving me I shall stop loving you little by little. If suddenly you
forget me do not look for me, for I shall already have forgotten you.
