I have lost the pleasure of pretending. It is for children exclusively, I think. There are risks I am not willing to take anymore. I am a woman who has always formed things with her mind, because I wanted them desperately to exist.
Justin, he speaks of love. What a foolish thing to do, to fall for an image. To fall for my voice, much manipulated to remove an alien accent. To fall for what can never be. What is to become of us both, if I weaken as he has? The world will teach us a hard lesson, for this foolishness. It is absurd for one to love a picture, as if it contained a breath, a soul.
He looks to me, and I hate him for this. It is always that I must loathe. Success and prosperity bring me no joy. I must have strife. Let there be precarious situations, which have the makings of a war. Boredom is constantly lurking around every corner, threatening to become a dark depression, a death wish. What could I possibly do with love, if I have never learned to be at leisure. My heart races, but not for love. Not inspired by the possibility of life, but of destruction.