I always tend to be ricocheting between both daydreams and reality, never really belonging to any of them. I live in perpetual loneliness, in dreams and reverie, whimsical fantasies of make-belief, swathed in gardens of rose and lavender, skies imbued with a pink haze, a peachy gold, speckled with stars in bright daylight, dripping seas from above, morning dewdrops against my skin. I am unable to completely unhinge myself from the lucidness of grueling reality, for I am in that way grounded to places I can never leave. I am also somewhat of a hopeless romantic, I love soft whispers, tender touches and feverish warmth. Bewitch me with your spellbound charm, and etch yourself against my skin, enchant me.

I thought about life, about my life, the embarrassments, the little coincidences, the shadows of alarm clocks on bedside tables, I thought about my small victories and everything I’d seen destroyed. I’d swum through mink coats on my parents’ bed while they hosted downstairs, I’d lost the only person with whom I could have spent my only life, I’d left behind a thousand tons of marble from which I could have released sculptures, I could have released myself from the marble of myself, I’d experienced joy, but not nearly enough, could there be enough? The end of suffering does not justify the suffering, and so there is no end to suffering, what a mess I am, I thought, what a fool, how foolish and narrow, how worthless, how pinched and pathetic, how helpless in the universe.

He wasn’t a complete human being at all. He was a tiny bit of one, unnaturally developed; something in a bottle, an organ kept alive in a laboratory. I thought he was a sort of primitive savage, but he was something absolutely modern and up-to-date that only this ghastly age could produce. A tiny bit of a man pretending to be whole.