I suppose this is all some disgusting mating activity to you, philosopher.
Is there ever such a thing as the philosopher in the bedroom?
I bet you think of me as a hindrance. As a pest. As a necessary evil to assuage certain of your needs. I’ll bet you hate your needs, don’t you? I’ll bet you wish you had the courage to castrate yourself, just like that. And remove all temptation. And just become a slave of work. That’s right, isn’t it?
You could write all day and all night without any disturbance.
This doesn’t teach you anything, does it? You’ve entered this reluctantly. It isn’t what you want, not really. Your body betrays you, doesn’t it, philosopher?
See, I thrive on this, and you … You’re not suited to romance.
Is there such a thing as a wisdom of romance do you think? Is there something you can learn from romance? Does it let you think in a way you couldn’t do otherwise?
Are romantic thoughts interesting thoughts? Philosophically valuable thoughts? Is there an insight in romance?
Work in Progress 