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I've seen your face before, my friend
but I don't know if you know who I am
Well, I remember, I remember, don't worry
how could I ever forget
It's the first time, and the last time we ever met.

The importance of exactness; the ability and desire to say the right thing, at the right time, in the right way; to pluck out the right word, image, from the stream of impressions. Hold your nerve, the memory of the absolute past was always there for you, lovingly left in your way for you to stumble upon, just under the surface, or like fish or deep shadows in the water.

The last time opened the door to the first time; just as the first moment held the memory of the last moment close to itself, memory and desire intertwining, falling, toppling into one another. When time ceases to be time there shall be no "first" or "last".

With the force of gravity removed, objects go flying off into space. But is that not what happens in love as well?

first meetings:

'And in the dark our nakedness was radiant
As slowly it inclined...
You slept, the lilac stretched out from the table
To touch your eyelids with a universe of blue,
And you received the touch upon your eyelids
and they were still, and still your hand was warm'

"If you throw even a cursory glance into the past, at the life which lies behind you, not even recalling its most vivid moments, you are struck every time by the singularity of the events in which you took part, the unique individuality of the characters whom you met"

In itself, a passer-by whom you have seen at some time in your life means nothing new..but within the terms of the image, a moment of life, one and unique, her form is recorded, truly seen, perfect and simple.

Reaching down into the furthest depths of the recreation of life, to carve out time, until only the moment remains, and only the most perfect image stands, still, fresh, open, trembling, a rolling sky-blue, the sparkling of eyes, the flash of fire, the slow burning of the blue in the red, the thawing of ice by the spring breeze, the inky waters stirring, the stuttering of words on your lips. A new time entering the old, sliding into it in the dark, the shock of the return, unscripted and unbroken.