In Love, As In Gluttony, Pleasure Is

…we Can Not Love Or Think Except In Fragments Of Time Each Of Which Goes Along Its Own Trajectory And Immediately Disappears.

You're The Sort Of Person Who, On Principle, No Longer Expects Anything Of Anything. There Are Plenty, Younger Than You Or Less Young, Who Live In The Expectation Of Extraordinary Experiences: From Books, From People, From Journeys, From Events, From What Tomorrow Has In Store. But Not You. You Know That The Best You Can Expect Is To Avoid The Worst.

The People Who Move Through The Streets Are All Strangers. At Each Encounter, They Imagine A Thousand Things About One Another; Meetings Which Could Take Place Between Them, Conversations, Surprises, Caresses, Bites. But No One Greets Anyone; Eyes Lock For A Second, Then Dart Away, Seeking Other Eyes, Never Stopping...something Runs Among Them, An Exchange Of Glances Like Lines That Connect One Figure With Another And Draw Arrows, Stars, Triangles, Until All Combinations Are Used Up In A Moment, And Other Characters Come On To The Scene.

Nobody Looks At The Moon In The Afternoon, And This Is The Moment When It Would Most Require Our Attention, Since Its Existence Is Still In Doubt.

A Person's Life Consists Of A Collection Of Events, The Last Of Which Could Also Change The Meaning Of The Whole, Not Because It Counts More Than The Previous Ones But Because Once They Are Included In A Life, Events Are Arranged In An Order That Is Not Chronological But, Rather, Corresponds To An Inner Architecture.