A Cena Estética

[...]
I drove past your house last night
I'm not proud of it
But I can't help but wonder
How many days or years
I have left

A salvação e o martírio do homem consiste precisamente no facto de levar uma vida aberrante mas poder toldar de tal maneira a consciência que não nota a calamidade da situação.

Lev Tolstói, A Sonata de Kreutzer

Sometimes, I call her names that are not her name. And she says, "That is not my name."
And again I say the name that is not her name. Don't touch me, she says. So I don't touch her, or I say no names and touch her. But still I think of the name that is not her name. But your roof does not fall. Maybe I need to say her name.
Tomorrow, I will break your roof.
Your kitchen chairs are still strong and mine are piles of sawdust. I want you to have dust for spoons and dirt in your closets, clothes that become string on you. Everything that is you to break and disintegrate. Everything that you touch. Your windowsills, the steps that lead to your door, all to fall apart. And when you touch him, his bones to break, the splinters into his pancreas, into his lungs, pelvic bone to snap, the spilling blood to rust. For him to rot and decay and fade.