Always always. So the day of love. It lifts us above the bodies of things. It links us to spirituality. As you know. In another place you prefer. Another day. Again. Maybe love tastes like grass. For omnivores. For the one who everything is mountain to the one who throws the house out the window in high-flying passion. Like the one who prefers the mess of the air. The hug mess. Of the steps. The door mess. The one with the rain of landscapes.