Soon, just as a wind moist with rain loosens, detaches, scatters, rots the most fragrant flowers, the sorrow of sensing the loss of her friend drowned all these voluptuous thoughts beneath a wave of tears. The face of our souls changes as often as the face of the sky. Our poor lives drift at whim between the currents of a voluptuousness where they dare not stay and the harbour of virtue that they don't have the strength to reach.
— The Mysterious Correspondent, Marcel Proust, pg. 51