Despite the fact, Vitalie, that as I die I am thinking of nothing else. In a fourth-floor apartment in Laval, between two shopping centres, we’d have formed a ball of rosy pink and rose in a big square bed, the sheets would have been canvas and harsh to your skin, my words gentle. And we’d have bored one another, you and I, until the end of time, the time that does not exist, you showed me its night in the night, a great black hole where if we wish, as we form that ball of rosy pink and rose, time never ends. You did not want me to tell them the truth. You kept yourself just outside of me, with your Northern manner, and you talked to me about hot illusions for the weak. A sister of charity, I saw in you the cornets they no longer wear, if indeed there are any left. I was determined to disobey you afterwards, when I shall be able to do harm without its being put on my account, and you will find yourself outside of nothing. I am writing you a letter, Vitalie, that they will receive before you.
