Book: Hell

I hid behind cynicism, my heart is castrated, I'm running from a monstrous proportion, the ridicule of universal Deceit. Eros hides in his quiver braid.
Love is all we came up with, to avoid feelings of depression after copulation, to justify fornication, to achieve orgasm. And love is the quintessence of Beauty, Goodness, Truth, it makes you more beautiful, it refines your miserable existence.
So, I'm giving up on love.
I confess secular hedonism, advocating for it, it makes me free. It frees me from the exaggerated enthusiasm of the first kiss, to call first to twelve times to listen to a short message on the answering machine to sit in a movie and drinking coffee and wine, remembering his childhood, common friends, then to dinner, to converse about their favorite writers, about what life is really cruel, then first night after her many others, and suddenly realize that there is nothing more to say to each other, pretend to kiss, to inhale the powder, don't even wanna make love, to leave and yet to stay together, to quarrel, to be comforted, knowing that everything is already dead, change with others, and then nothing, emptiness...