For the longest time after that, neither of us said anything. I was unaccustomed to his silence, but I didn't mind it. I knew near everything about him, and he knew near everything about me, and all that made our quiet a kind of song. The kind you hum without even knowing what it is or why you're humming it. The kind that you've always known.

And suddenly I realized that he knew everything that was going on in my head, all the time, and that he still loved me. Because who we are is behind all that.

I think it was a communication of the heart. When we kept quiet, our hearts discovered that they were kindred spirits.

To know silence perfectly is to know music.

He had always known what I did not know and what, when I learned it, I was always able to forget. But I did not know that then, although I learned it later.

Our intimacy was like a minuet, simply because on every possible occasion and in every possible circumstance we knew where to go, where to sit, which table we unanimously should choose; and we could rise and go, all four together, without a signal from any one of us, always to the music of the Kur orchestra, always in the temperate sunshine, or, if it rained, in discreet shelters.

Tell me not here, it needs not saying, What tune the enchantress plays In aftermaths of soft September Or under blanching mays, For she and I were long acquainted And I knew all her ways.

Love was about this, the nuggets of knowledge about our beloved that we so fluently hold.

I know everything about you. What you hide. What you dream.

Every step they took, she told him something he'd never known before; and yet it always seemed, the moment she'd said it, as if he had known it all his life.

There is a music for lonely hearts nearly always.
If the music dies down there is a silence.
Almost the same as the movement of music.
To know silence perfectly is to know music.

From a distance we are instruments Marching in a common band Playing songs of hope, playing songs of peace They're the songs of every man.

I do not need to get used to your silence. I already know it. I quite possibly love all of it.

Your friend is the man who knows all about you, and still likes you.