Our destinies caught into the deep lines of my left palm.
With my right index finger, I trace those lines again and again, until I cannot breathe anymore, until my left palm bleeds.
None of us can be judged outside endless flights between continents, outside of our profuse tears and of our love for art, outside of the slippery slope that runs from amitié amoureuse to deep impassioned love.
One day all of us will have to understand that the past should stay in the past. That day is inscribed in my left palm together with our pain, and our tendencies toward the kind of love that transcends any earthly boundaries.
Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers