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17/10/08

I should have taken more drugs when the time befitted me. And only that I'd taken fewer as time besought me. I should not be alone in this, to conjecture, but there exists, again in this, no common ground, and there is never another. Only others. This life and your life, these are not lives. The non-irony is excruciating. I know you feel it too, at some depth. Love is an ideal of the past. At best we have momentary infractions. Cherish these for all. Cherish nothing for nothing. Puis nada.

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12/10/08

I have, I think, an emotional sickness. I believe strongly in feeling, in allowing oneself to feel. It is a bourgeois desire, and I don't know whence it came. I grew up in a trailer and a cabin and a shed. I hope you will not confuse me with some other things, but it will be natural of you to do so.

I also believe in a certain type of Stoicism, wherein what one feels is never burdensome of others. This is a difficult position, in which one constantly overwrites oneself in the grip of feeling and the stop of implication. I'll try and say what I mean.

The world is ending. The world is in a constant state of ending, I know, but the translation is different this time. You'd better learn all the words of all the languages right now, because we are nearing the final opportunity to understand. I know that if I love you right now it might be nothing, the abyss, tomorrow. I know that this is the quiet that most people just endear. I'm not trying to be different or difficult or difracted or some other iconographs like words mostly are to you and me and culture. I'm just trying hard at living a life.

Please love me.

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