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.
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