I was thinking about your creed, remember?
I don't know what you mean.
No, one never remembers everything, but the creed went: 'I believe in the pleasure of the flesh and the irreparable loneliness of the soul.'
Oh yes. That sounds like me.
The gardener has been told that only grass shall grow on my grave and in springtime I shall have anemones. You'll come by one day, pick an anemone and think of me. Take it as a word of love that was thought, but never spoken.