Book: Collector. Page 4

I do not know. What then do somehow obscures what used to be.

- ... Most women strive to be able to do something good. They mean good hands, flair and taste, all that. And not able to understand that if you strive to reach the deepest essence, the form that translates your art to you does not matter. No matter, whether it is words, colors or sounds. Anything.
I said go ahead.
- It's like your own voice. Whatever it was, you put up with him and say how can, because you have no choice. But it is important what you say. This is what distinguishes great art from everything else.

And I would agree to stay with him that night. If he had asked. If it came up to me and kissed me.
Not for the sake of it. Just to feel that I live in.

If lying on the back, as then in Spain (we slept in the yard), and looking up through the branches of the olive trees, looking up at the starry corridors, seas, oceans of stars. Feel like a part of the universe.
I cried. Silently.

Realize: it is impossible to pretend that life is fun, because it would be a betrayal. Betrayal. Disloyal to those who are sad now and those who once were sad, in relation to the music, to the only truth.

Alive. Alive, but still dead.

I think I need a man much older because of their age, I just see through.

It is necessary that this man was at least equal to you in spirit, able to see and understand everything better than you. And physiology should be in the second place, it is not important.

Between us now the deep abyss. On the bridge of the question.

A forced promise is not a promise.

Truly he is a prisoner. Enclosed in his own narrow little world disgusting today.

They sulk if you deny them, and hate if you agree.

Money hit K. in the head. If he drank a whole bottle of whiskey, and can not drink.

Don't know if he wanted to I thought that my "virtue" triumphed over his "depravity", or meant something more subtle, well, that's kind of sometimes defeated is the winner.