To love, to find once more the lost grace of the first moment when one is in love. . .

I walk ahead automatically, in a great clank of gates being closed.  To love, to find once more the lost grace of the first moment when one is in love. . .  All sorts of defenses take shape around me, bright laughter springing up from the years past to finish sobbing, under the great beating of gray wings of an uncertain spring night.  Uncertain: this uncertainty is in me, since, on that night, I find myself reading into the future what could be, what should be if the heart were to rule.  Freedom in relation to other beings, freedom in relation to the person one has been seems only to show itself so tempting in order to weigh me down with its challenge.  Who goes with me in this hour in Paris without leading me and whom, moreover, I am not leading?

--Andre Breton, Mad Love