I wanted to be a writer, that's all. I wanted to write about it all. Everything that happens in a moment. The way the flowers looked when you carried them in your arms. This towel, how it smells, how it feels, this thread. All our feelings, yours and mine. The history of it, who we once were. Everything in the world. Everything all mixed up, like it's all mixed up now. And I failed. I failed. No matter what you start with it ends up being so much less. Sheer fucking pride and stupidity.
Start with half a dozen European cities... throw in 30 euphemisms for male genitalia and you've got yourself a book.
— It's brilliant, no?
— It's missing some periods and commas.
— It's better than anything you've ever written.
— I use periods and commas.
Sartre said, "Hell is other people." He was my first crush.
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