Slowly, quietly, like snow-flakes-like the small flakes that come when it is going to snow all night
-little flakes of me, my impressions, my selections, are settling down on the image of her. The real shape wil be quite hidden in the end.

Now, if we are made for heaven, the desire for our proper place will be already in us, but not yet attached to the true object, and will even appear as the rival of that object … If a transtemporal, transfinite good is our real destiny, then any other good on which our desire fixes must be in some degree fallacious, must bear at best only a symbolical relation to what will truly satisfy.

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