How can I explain to you, my happiness, my golden wonderful happiness, how much I am all yours with all my memories, poems, outbursts, inner whirlwinds? Or explain that I cannot write a word without hearing how you will pronounce it, and can't recall a single trifle I've lived through without regret, so sharp! That we haven't lived through it together, whether it's the most, the most personal, intransmissible or only some sunset or other at the bend of a road. You see what I mean, my happiness?