L'Irréparable

I meet you. I remember you. Who are you? You’re destroying me. You’re good for me. How could I know this city was tailor-made for love? How could I know you fit my body like a glove? I like you. How unlikely. I like you. How slow all of a sudden. How sweet. You cannot know. You’re destroying me. You’re good for me. You’re destroying me. You’re good for me. I have time. Please, devour me. Deform me to the point of ugliness. Why not you? Why not you in this city and in this night, so like other cities and other nights you can hardly tell the difference? I beg of you.

- Marguerite Duras

So If I Can Finish These By This Year I Would Be Satisfied:

1. The Metamorphosis, Franz Kafka
2. The Sickness unto Death, Soren Kierkegaard
3. Thus Spoke Zarathustra, Friedrich Nietzsche
4. The Plague, Albert Camus
5. Nausea, Jean-Paul Sartre

And by the time I finish these I would be one of those people who stay up all night chain smoking and thinking about the complexities of the universe with a scotch in hand and I wouldn't be able to survive without coffee in the morning and actually coffee all day. I would write motherfucking god awesome books about things no one really understands save the people who osculate in this dreary and infinite field. I would zone out in the middle of a conversation for a long pause and proceed to say the most kooky, depressing things ever. People will start shunning me because I'm too creepy and too goddamn wretched for them. I would be the ominous, gloomy overcast that looms over their happy little cotton parade.

That actually sounds pretty fucking awesome.

P.S. I don't know why, but philosophy triggers my foul language button.

You Know What's Beautiful?

In French, you don't really say "I miss you". You say "tu me manques", which is closer to "you are missing from me".

I love that. "You are missing from me." You are part of me. You are essential to my being. You are like a limb, or an organ, or blood. I cannot function without you.