Human beings are not born once and for all on the day their mother gives birth to them, but that life obliges them over and over again to give birth … - Gabriel García Márquez

For they had lived together long enough to know that love was always love, anytime and anyplace, but it was more solid the closer it came to death.

"Everything that belonged to her husband made her weep again: his tasseled slippers, his pajamas under the pillow, the space of his absence in the dressing table mirror, his own odor on her skin. A vague thought made her shudder: "The people one loves should take all their things with them when they die.

Blood circulated through her veins with the fluidity of a song that branched off into the most hidden areas of her body and returned to her heart, purified by love.