No act of mourning, not even these pages where I bring her back to life, would make me forget her hands or mouth, would make me admit she is gone. Did she love me? Do you love those who love you? Where did she come from? J. P. brought her over one night, at my request, to photograph her. Where is she? Her death separated us; my death will not reunite us. And where am I? In hell, they say... Damned women—very damned.All too often, when I am out walking, I think I see her slender silhouette before me, that particular way she had of dancing while walking, with one of her very round shoulders incessantly baring itself, the fabric of her dress sliding over her skin. Patiently, harmoniously, she pushes it back toward her neck; you can see the undulation of her hair on her shoulders. When just about to catch up, I glimpse a nearly white kiss-curl, a touch of blondness trembling against her rounded cheek, the promise of ample buttocks. I speed up and pass, but of course it is not her. Only in books may you journey among the dead.
