"It’s repose in the light, neither fever nor languor, on the bed or the field.
It’s the friend neither ardent nor weak. The friend.
It’s the beloved not tormented, and not tormenting. The beloved.
The air and the world unsought. Life.
– Was this it, then?
– And the dream cools."
Arthur Rimbaud — from “Vigils” in Illuminations (via slothnorentropy)