People always turn into the city they live in.

What he wanted, for the last time, was for them to possess the infinite — a boundless empty space where they could rush toward each other with the same passion as before, when they met in the rain, at the cafe filled with students and chess players, at the ponds in Vesinet, in London, and in other places that had been theirs and that his memory had marked, joyful, tranquil surfaces upon which — and here was another dream — he could finally sleep.

You might forget bodies and skins, but never great moments of pleasure.