Lacking anything of substance to say

And then the world swirls down a night drain and the road opens wide. Winter will seal off this moment from the dull grey environs of the city. A place that makes a man want to escape it and someday return to rule it, to make it bow before him in a mechanical gnashing of automated teeth and melting miles of electric wire.

You are familiar with each centimeter of her skin, the timbre of her voice, the movements of her eyes, and nearly all of her reactions. You love her laugh, the carriage of her head, everything, even (for instance) that tiny inperfection, possibly known only to you.

However, if you watch her sleeping, you will very probably have the impression of not knowing her completely. The face is no longer present to itself, there seems to be an inner absence. Eyes closed, body languid, posture unusual, the ineradicable innocence. And her breathing sounds far away. So why do you feel this curious mixture of total confidence, slight anxiety, and vague embarassment, as if you were present at some scene you should not be witnessing?

Most likely it is the juxtaposition of presence and absence that creates this unease. Perhaps you cannot really be sure that this Sleeping Beauty is indeed the same as the woman you love. You will never know. It may seem droll. And yet, all you can do is carry her along with your tenderness and love, which you can extend as far as possible, into the living heart of this silence, of which she knows nothing.

(from several months ago)