Look at that moon. Potato weather for sure. - Thornton Wilder

Now he discovered that secret from which one never quite recovers, that even in the most perfect love one person loves less profoundly than the other.

Everybody has a right to their own troubles.

You swore you loved me, and laughed and warned me that you would not love me forever.
I did not hear you. You were speaking in a language I did not understand. Never, never, I can conceive of a love which is able to foresee its own termination. Love is its own eternity. Love is in every moment of its being: all time. It is the only glimpse we are permitted of what eternity is. So I did not hear you. The words were nonsense.