We actually Get On. You can’t make that up. We can Talk. I can talk to you in a way I can’t talk to anyone. It’s not even that it’s about particular things.
It’s just … a lightness … I feel lightened by your company. I feel lighter than I was. Even though we always talk about these dark, dark things.
Do you ever get bored of me, philosopher?
No.
Do you wonder whether I get bored of you? I’ll bet it doesn’t cross your mind … That anyone could find you anything but fascinating.
I miss you … at particular times of day. At out fucking times. The afternoon, of course. Afternoons with you.
How did you learn to speak like this?
I read philosophy in A level French. Camus, Sartre.
Those guys.
Are they passe now? Are they gauche?
You should have studied philosophy – why didn’t you?
Because I wanted to do something useful.
You seem bored.
Sure – I’m bored of the living. You guys bore me. When you’re dead, everything bores you. All the franticness of the living.
Yet you’d like a fuck.
There’s a connection between sex and death. You know that.
How have you been? Still dead?
Still – dead.
How about romance – is that waking you up?
I’m death with open eyes. I see everything from the point of view of the dead.
Don’t touch me. Do nothing.
The sadness of happiness. Of a content life. The sadness of what love becomes. Habit.
I hate them more and more since I’ve been hanging out with you. I hate my husband and I hate my life and I hate my house. And I hate Organisational Management .
What’s happening to my life? Where am I going?
Would I be happy here? Could I settle here? With you? What would I do here? How would I occupy myself while you worked? I could be your muse, couldn’t I? What philosophical thoughts would I inspire?
Work in Progress 