Love never dies of a natural death. It dies because we don’t know how to replenish its source, it dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illnesses and wounds, it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings, but never of natural death.

Anaïs Nin (1903-1977) Catalan-Cuban-French author, diarist

The Four-Chambered Heart (1959)
    (Source)

Djuna to Rango.