There is no greater heaven than the heart of a loving mother
She takes care of you when you are still in her womb.
She nurtures you after you are born.
She hurts when you fall,
She celebrates when you make your first steps.
She is the only person who genuinely cares about you.
She loves you as she loves herself.
Her heart is your true paradise.
I love you mama.

What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery? (Just to give you an idea, Proust’s reply was ‘To be separated from Mama.’) I think that the lowest depth of misery ought to be distinguished from the highest pitch of anguish. In the lower depths come enforced idleness, sexual boredom, and/or impotence. At the highest pitch, the death of a friend or even the fear of the death of a child.

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