Romain Rolland 
Pierre And Luce 

Pierre entered the subway head-first. A violent, contagious throng. He stood close to the entrance, squeezed against a group of people, sharing the heavy air that was coming in and out of their lips, and he peered without noticing them at the pitch-black, rumbling vaults above which the train’s bright eyes flashed. A young man, just eighteen years old and yet almost a kid, had a deep dread filling his heart. Pierre admired Philip with the same passion that younger children frequently feel for older siblings or other strangers who are sometimes only glimpsed at for an hour before they are gone again.

A week later, he was lazing around in the golden-hued Luxembourg Gardens, which the sun had just finished illuminating. When he gazed down at the sandy path, he got the sense that a grin had just flown by like the wingtip of a dove. And at that very second, she continued walking while turning her head to look at him with a smile. They would close their eyes, draw closer together, and everything would end in one blow when the gulf was supposed to be there. The voice of the delivered soul could only be heard via music, which was the only form of art to do so.