To try to write love is to confront the muck of language: that region of hysteria where language is both too much and too little, excessive and impoverished.
Instead of being a sudden impulse full of ardor and reverie, it becomes a distastefully utilitarian affair.
If you say, I love you, then you have already fallen in love with language, which is already a form of break up and infidelity.
I met in the street a very poor young man who was in love. His hat was old, his coat worn, his cloak was out at the elbows, the water passed through his shoes -- and the stars through his soul.
Do you want to know a good way to fall in love? Just associate with all your pleasant experiences with someone, and disassociate from all the unpleasant ones.
To love someone is to isolate him from the world, wipe out every trace of him, dispossess him of his shadow, drag him into a murderous future. It is to circle around the other like a dead star and absorb him into a black light.