It's like I was living the " last " things of the condemned man. I'm begging for a last month of fees, just an other year under a roof, just one more dawn to see the splendor of galaxies.
It's a faustian deal, leave me alone for a year, enjoying these things like a stowaway. Ok I admit I've been a crook, disembark me at the next stopover, have mercy, give me just one night, gazing at the stars.
I used to dream of a true deep, passion and my love life has been a long serial of misachievements, misun derstandings, miscarriages, mis- everything.
I was dreaming of a career, some sort of continous story also, and my work life has been nothing but a serial of quiproquos I tried hard to atenuate during their agony.
These days, I know batteries are low, the end is near. I enjoy having a good bed, it might not last. But my batteries are low. Energy; all kinds of energies, from the noblest aspirations to the cheapest lusts, have vanished, melt, dried.
I can't stand anymore of your words, your faces, of the way your desperately move your tongues to produce stupid sentences, your eyes that reflect nothing but greed and angst, none of them. Nothing that is human is a me alienum, but little is of interest. And I don't have the recomfort of these who stay on their ass on top of a stone along the river, worshipping a tree.
Quand je dis " Je t'aime", ce n'est pas à toi que je le dis, mais à ce qui aurait pu, ce qui aurait dû être. Quand je m'adresse au monde, ce n'est pas à vous que je parle mais à quelque chose dont vous ne semblez décidément pas pouvoir imaginer la possibilité même de l'existence.
Since I heard this sentence, I always felt " As I lay dying " as including the whole experience of my life, trying to stop falling blocks.
So it's the end, my friend. Please, leave me alone. Just leave me one day alone to put my things in order and you will be able to add my body to the count of your victims, to pile it up the wall.
Du papier qui brille, qu'on froisse et qui fait de la lumière, je ne sais rien faire. Je vis dans la terreur des crépuscules sans fin, plaquée aux recoins des murs en espérant que la Bête qui passe ne m'entendra pas respirer.
"L'art est ce qui se rapproche le plus de la vie" (Juan-Jorge Quinoa in Mémoires de l'Oubli)