Compared To A Novel, A

Love Is A Temporary Madness. It Erupts Like An Earthquake And Then Subsides.

How Strange That The World Should Change Because Of Words, And Words Change Because Of The World

Women Only Nag When They Feel Unappreciated.

The Garden Where You Sit Has Never A Need Of Flowers, For You Are The Blossoms And Only A Fool Or The Blind Would Fail To Know It

Love Is A Kind Of Dementia With Very Precise And Oft-repeated Clinical Symptoms. You Blush In Each Other's Presence, You Both Hover In Places Where You Expect The Other To Pass, You Are Both A Little Tongue-tied, You Both Laugh Inexplicably And Too Long, You Become Quite Nauseatingly Girlish, And He Becomes Quite Ridiculously Gallant. You Have Also Grown A Little Stupid.