Romain grows nobler every day; he never misses an opportunity to use the subjunctive. The other day, with a faraway look in his eyes, he ordered Marwan to clean the kitchen table, and the latter saint obliged with savage servility, scuttling low and dark around the bright blue Ikea...it was like something out of Moby-Dick, or Frankenstein.
I chat with Oskar (Oscar?) in his Texas persona, laid back but quick. I remind him he is exquisitely textual, many-personed, of a rich unreality; that's him all right.
I've had periods of dull mania. The delicious idea of eating Nutella on the subway, je suis folle, I shelve it. A sudden gust of wind and toutes mes feuilles se sont enfuies...I don't want them back (I do, I do). I rock in the wind and recite to myself. Selfyeast of spirit a dull dough sours...are all the lost like this? Romain whistling en haut, the wind turning and turning in the wide outside.
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