Колекціонер

I felt I was going mad last night, so I wrote and wrote and wrote myself into the other world.

But however good you get at translating personality into line or paint it’s no go if your personality isn’t worth translating.

It’s me he wants, my look, my outside; not my emotions or my mind or my soul or even my body. Not anything human.

I have forgiven them their fighting against my ambition for their ambitions.

But what they can’t stand is that I hate them when they don’t behave in their own way.

He said, men are vile.
I said, the vilest thing about them is that they can say that with a smile on their faces.

Just those three words, said and meant. I love you.
They were quite hopeless. He said it as he might have said, I have cancer.
His fairy story.

A feeling that everything must end, the music, ourselves, the moon, everything. That if you get to the heart of things you find sadness for ever and ever, everywhere; but a beautiful silver sadness...

As if that solves everything, as if to hate something means it can’t have affected you.

But right out of his real self.