“Moon of lost memories shining down on the dark landscape, bright in the stillness of my imperfect understanding. My being feels you vaguely, as if it were an invisible belt encircling you. I bend over your white face reflected in the nocturnal waters of my disquiet, but I will never know if you hang in my sky in order to cause that disquiet or are instead a strange submarine moon merely feigning disquiet.
If only I could create a New Way of Looking with which to see you, as well as New Thoughts and New Feelings with which to think and feel you!
When I attempt to touch your mantle, my words drain of all energy the very effort of reaching out, and a stiff, painful weariness turns my words to ice. Like the flight of a bird that seems to be approaching but never arrives, that same weariness hovers above what I would like to say about you, but the matter of my sentences is incapable of imitating the substance or the sound of your footsteps or the trace left behind by your glances, or the sad, empty color of the gestures you never made.”Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet