Book: Nausea. Page 3

I am happy: this cold is so pure, so pure that night, unless I myself am not a wave of icy air? Not have neither blood, nor lymph, nor flesh. And flow on this long channel to the pale spot in the distance. To be just cold.

Quietly. Quietly. Now I don't feel like slides, hurting me.

I felt that desperate loneliness that I wanted to commit suicide. Kept me the idea that my death isn't sad for anyone, anyone in the world and in death I will be even lonelier than life.

I no longer feel alone. But of course, it wasn't necessary for someone to meet.

"The weather is beautiful, a sea of green, for me, it's a dry cold is better than damp". Poets! And try to take one of them over the coat lapels and tell him: "Help me!" he'll think: "what Is a crab?" and run away, leaving his coat in my hands.

I glance around the room. Well, and a farce! All these people with the most serious form seated on their seats and eat. No, don't eat - they reinforce their forces in order to successfully fulfil their duties. Each of them has its strong point, and it makes them feel that they exist; not a single one who would not consider that without it can not do someone or something.

But I no longer see: I rummage in the past, I extract from it only fragmentary pictures, and I don't really know what they mean, memories, or fictions.

All around me objects were made of the same material that I myself, from a kind of nasty suffering.

I painfully feel that we have nothing more to say to each other. Yesterday I wanted to throw her questions: where she went, what he did, who he met with? But it interested me only in so far as Annie was able to surrender to this wholeheartedly. And now I don't care; countries, cities that Annie had seen, the men who courted her and whom perhaps she loved, - all this was exciting her, in her heart, she remained quite indifferent: passing solar flare on the surface of the dark, cold sea. Sitting in front of me Annie, we haven't seen for four years, and we have nothing more to say to each other.

They will sleep together. They know it. Each of them knows that the other knows it. But since they are young, chaste and decent, since each one wants to maintain self-esteem and respect for the partner, because love is Grand and poetic, and it can not scare off, they are several times a week, go to dances and restaurants to dress in the eyes of the public their little ritual, mechanical PA... also need something to kill time. They are young, well-built, they even thirty years will be enough. So they are hurrying things along, they retard their, and they're right. After they fuck each other, they'll have to find something else to mask the monstrous absurdity of its existence.

"Isn't this a beautiful couple?"
They are not freaks. They are silent, they are happy that they are together, happy see them together. Sometimes, we are with Annie, going into a restaurant in Piccadilly, felt that we touched the aspiring views. Annie is angry, but I, to tell the truth, slightly proud of it. And most importantly, were surprised. I've never been so our bruised and tidy, as this young man did very well. However, ugly was not so much that it touched. Just we were young and now I've reached that age when it touches someone else's youth. But I don't lament. The woman gentle dark eyes. The young man leather orange color, slightly rough, and charming little chin. They touch me, it's true, but at the same time they told me something to the contrary. They are so far from me, they relaxed in the warmth, they cherish in the soul of the common dream such sweet, such sickly. They are good, they look at these yellow walls, people, they love the world for what it is, it is what it is, and each of them draws the sense of his life in the life of another. Soon they will have one life for two, a slow, tepid life, devoid of any meaning - but they won't notice.

Go out on the street. Why? Yes, then that is also pointless to stay home. Even if I stay, even if the silence will hide in the corner, I still will myself not going anywhere. I'll be in this corner, I'll push his weight on the floor. I am.

My body of flesh, the flesh lives, the flesh creeps, quietly, she turns the juices, creams, this flesh rotates, rotates a mild sweet moisture of my flesh, blood of my hands, the sweet pain in my wounded flesh which is rotated, it goes, I'm coming, I'm running, I'm a bastard with wounded flesh, wounded by the existence on these walls. I am cold, a step, I'm cold, another turn to the left, he turned left, he thinks that turned left. Crazy? Maybe I'm crazy? He says he is afraid to go mad, existence, a speck of dust in existence, he stops, body stops, he thinks, that stops where he came from? What is he doing? He comes again, he's scared, very scared, the villain, the desire as darkness, desire, disgust, he says that he hates to exist, he was disgusted? He's tired because it's disgusting to exist. He runs. On what he expects? He runs to escape, to jump into the water? He is running, running, heart is beating, beating heart - a celebration.

Here he is staring at me again. Now he talks to me, I'm bristling. Any sympathy we each other do not feel - we just similar that's the point. He's lonely like me, but deeper mired in loneliness. He's probably waiting for his Nausea or anything like that. So, now there are people who recognize me: looking at me, they think: "This of ours." Well, what's the matter? What does he want? He should understand that we help each other anything can't. Family people sit at home in the midst of his memories. And we have two forgetful of chip, here. If he now stand up and come to me, I will explode.