Once i had a boyfriend i didn't love, we didn't have anything in common, but he was beautiful and, as my dearest Carson has said: "Beauty convinces. You know beauty makes sex possible. Beauty makes sex sex."
Some day while we were in his car, i said: I will never love you, i might care for you but i won't ever love you, and is not fair but that's just the way it goes. Nunca había sentido tantas ganas de besarte como ahorita, esa fue su respuesta.
Yo, en cambio, nunca entendí ese tierno masoquismo; lo aproveché, por supuesto, pero no lo entendí. Hasta hace unos días.
You are what you love, no matter how the Significant feels about you, that is really, totally, irrelevant. You are what you love. And you will brake and show your bones, and you won't sleep, and you will see waves passing while the waiting (for all and for nothing), you will do things he won't understand, you will make a fool of yourself, and everything would be in vain: you know and can see it from the start. But you throw yourself to that emptyness, careless, with something more ridicule and worst than hope, let us not say the word. again.