I am empty and I will die.

tempo, tempo, tempo

Sim, isso sim, e tudo o mais, mas também acontece que, e eu sinto muito, mas, e também faz parte, e não, não me sinto mal, sim, vou sair, não me importo com, não quero ver, não vejo problema em e acho interessante. depois volta e fim.

All in a bag, I'm all wrapped up in Prague, it's snowing

Wrap myself in a bag

I'm all wrapped up in Prague.

To William

Dear William,

I believe I have come across her.

At 25th December

Stick Boy noticed that his Christmas tree looked healthier than he did.

(Tim Burton - Stick Boy's Festive Season)

She never was and could never, nor could I, and I haven't

I have killed her. Just now. I'm still shocked and I still haven't washed my hands. It's weird. She smells of oranges. She looks like a cartoon. She's beautiful. I'm not sorry. I could have fell in love with her. Some time. Some day in the future. Some weird re-encounter. Oh, but we have never met. I could have teached her how to dance and how to sew a sock, and she could have told me what makes her sleep and what she likes in sex. She liked Elton John and Jackson Five, I've figured, and her toothpaste was strawberry flavoured. I was nervous, never got to kiss her mouth and when she was lying on the floor in that strange angle I still felt her breaths drying my eyes. Her hair looked beautiful spread upon the wooden floor and her nose seemed to be still catching and releasing air. She looked lonely. Never more beautiful. Still she did not look peaceful, I wonder if she ever was. Her scent always reminded me of fire and her fingers of rape and murder. I think she was never peaceful. I see her in a tale of lost love, a lover that went away, a love that could not be, could never have been. She was doomed. So am I. I do not love her, and could never. She looks like a piece of wood, she's so static. What may be the story of that tatoo above the left hip and how old were those trainers under her bed? She could have been the lover of Napoleon and the whole curse of History changed by their thorny separation. She could never have loved me. She's dead now, it' ok.

Note

I don't find you interesting.(I don't know you.) I don't find you attractive. I do not want you. I wish I would and you would take me. I do not find a reasonable reason for this. Actually I do, but I wish it did not exist. It hunts me that I'm so puzzled about what may be so attractive about you that caught the other's attention. The other's attention is never caught.

Deliver to Henry

Dear Henry, I believe I have understood her.

You've only heard about her once or twice, I have always been most protective about my feelings and thoughts of her and even her only being. You possibly don't even know her favourite colour - telling someone else's favourite colour is already exposing your thoughts of them. But you've known she's a riddle. A riddle is possibly all you know of her, and all do I. Always feeling the greater disposition for falling in love with her never told me why I felt this, nor what she meant to me, nor what she was. Never have I encountered so peculiar, calling and challenging a soul. She's trully a riddle. If Wilde could only see her..! I'm sure he'd say she's the sphinx's secret itself, for she is.

I was always under the risk of falling in love with her, as I have already stated, but never did so. I still can and may, but I simply won't. If she'd ask me - and as you know me, I feel strongly invited to tell her all of this, for you know I'm always dazzled by and curious about what the truth might bring out - I'd say it was always a matter of choice and never a matter of choice, for it is exactly this. You yourself wouldn't understand or be able to grab her soul, my dearest, and I am very aware of how clever and astute you are. But I was thinking just now of my distress and erosion with her and suddenly realized what it is that she causes.

She is purely and simply an opportunity for an obsession. Knowing this, all is explained. For I, despite my strong wills to do so, never had an obsession. And who doesn't want or need one? Now, I know, Henry, that you've known my episodes of alcohol and gambling, but they were never an obsession: they were only and simply, for a time, my very only friends. But she is so clearly a fall, a downright fall, she could never be more attractive and nothing could be more attractive than her. She has no idea of that, of course, but she's so peculiar a case I believe even if she did she would still be a fantastic disease. Even she is unable to spoil and dominate such lovable danger.

So that's what she is. She's an obsession. Obsession IS her. It's even awkward we don't notice it from the start - she's fabulously a black dame, a black hole, a sin, she's alcohol and cigarettes, she's a drug, she's so completely a drug and she will eventually kill you. Even if she loves you back. That's just her.

She suffers too. She never finds peace, never will and does not seek it. And she'll die being just that, just this. If there's a God, she'll die coming, and still she'll be unhappy. She'll be blasé, as if looking to a camera, as if being a movie star, as if playing a role, for she plays, she is a role and she is not. She's the Cinema; you'd understand.

I'll die, Henry. Tomorrow or the day after that. This is not a probability. I'm glad.

Yours,

Smells like Lisbon

With the lights out it's less dangerous

Here we are now, entertain us

I feel stupid and contagious

Here we are, now entertain us

A mulatto,

An albino,

A mosquito,

My libido.

especially Rebecca will like this, I believe

"How my Bovary infuriates me! Still, I am beginning to get out of the wood a little. Never in my life have I written anything harder than what I am doing now, a dialogue of trivialities! This inn scene, for all I know, is going to keep me for three months; I feel I want to cry sometimes, so helpless do I feel. But I'd rather die than scamp it. What I have to do is to bring five or six talking characters into the same conversation, several others whom they refer to, the place where they are, the whole of their district, whilst giving physical descriptions of people and things, and in the midst of all this to show a gentleman and a lady who, through a sympathy in their tastes, are just beginning to take a fancy to each other. If only I had more space! But it is essential that this should be quick without being bare, full without becoming clogged, and yet I have to hold back for later other details which would there be more striking...."

Gustave Flaubert to Louise Colet, late one Sunday night in 1852, resting after a bout with the "Lion d'Or" scene.