Someone on or above the earth, tell me why on earth, does she beg of love at the feet of men who snatch hers from her, selling it on to themselves at a profit that can't possibly reflect its worth.
This is always ungentle robbery, is not a plot of lust, because she is very conscious of her select few lovers, particularly in relation to her gains, to her own sexual harvest.
The answer, in vague and uncertain terms, lies somewhere in the shaded area shaped quadrangle by the lines that don't quite connect the picture of a father, the part of her soul that freezes at the touch of warmth, the tattered feminist beginners handbook, the lampshade and the bloody gate that she gazes at monthly, that she once made me taste, that stains her desire for progress.
But desire tarnished; twisted, perverse desire, does not have any implications for the progress itself. And so, progressively, her questions become more stupid. Hand in the fire stupid, eating broken glass stupid, forgetting that you don't like pain stupid. Stupid then and stupid when, on a terribly, dreadly sunny day comes the most ridiculous, nauseous, frustratingly stupid question of them all.
On the wall hight above the graffiti of all the things I could never bring myself to say, she turned to me just as the sun turned away and (thinking, in her stupidity, that it couldn't see or hear us) asked: ‘Will you love me forever?’
‘Of course not’, I said.