But everything is absurd, and dreaming least of all.
Everything is absurd.
His voice was dull and tremulous, the voice of one who hopes for nothing, because all hope is vain.
Isn't love at least a means of possessing ourselves through our sensations? Isn't it at least a way of dreaming vividly, and therefore more gloriously, the dream that we exist?
If Fate decrees it should happen, so be it. I feel curious about emotions. About facts, whatever they might be, I feel no curiosity whatsoever.
My past is everything I failed to be.