The debauchery is done.

When I'm begging from now on I'll just promise to be good.

"I arrive...I enter the room...that's when I really start to exist for you... but I existed before that...I had thoughts.. I may have been suffering."

Cha chap chapitre
chapitre huit:
le désespoir.

Awake and asleep have been reversed.
My days consist of fragmented conversations, raw colors, echoing chansons from Jean-Luc Godard films. I hold Pierrot's pen and paint Marianne's lineur onto my eyelids.
And then I can't sleep without a sense of banality.

I can't get far enough away from these dense English memories. I can't even choose the ones I'd like to keep.