I can't be normal because I refuse to be normal. I wish I wanted to be normal.

I'm not sick I'm just stupid.

PS

Long bouts of isolation punctuated by failures in communication. That is what I meant to describe. Four books in one day and everything is very blurry.

disconnected (disinterested)

Reading too much, sleeping alternatively too much and too little. Nothomb, Sarraute, Zola, Stephen King, Edgar Poe, human anatomy, I make no distinction of the genre, time or space. My fix : intellectual stimulation of the senses.

My dreams are more vivid than reality. At night, I'm a champagne junkie and I wear real pearls ; I'm alone and it's fine. I eat fruit drizzled in balsamic vinegar. I lounge. The champagne flute is ice-cold in my hand.

In the words of Amélie Nothomb herself : « Le champagne est si froid que les bulles ont durçi. On a l'impression de boire de la poussière de diamants. »

My eyes are too dry, but I don't need to see anyone. When I walk outside, my legs feel like lead. Maybe it's the cold. Maybe I'm dying.

I never want to leave this place.