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integer at integer at
Fri May 30 06:19:32 CEST 2003

the clocks of the world. do you have difficulty, valmont, to make your better self stand erect.

with you marchioness. though i do have to admit that i am beginning to understand why loyalty is the
wildest of all debaucheries. too late as far as our tender relation is concerned, but i am planning to
exercise this new experience a bit. i hate times past. change accumulates them. look at our nails,
we go on sprouting in the coffin. and imagine if we had to dwell among the refuse of our years.
pyramids of filth, until the tape rips at the finish line. or in the secretions of our bodies.
death alone is eternal, life keeps repeating itself until the abyss yawns. the deluge is a deficiency 
of canalization. as for the loving husband: he is in a foreign country on some secret mission.
maybe he'll succeed, political animal that he is, in starting some war or other. an effective
poison against the boredom of devastation. life moves faster when dying becomes a stage play,
the beauty of the world cuts less deeply into the heart - do we have a heart, marchioness -
as we watch its destruction; you're watching the parade of young buttocks which confronts us
day in, day out, with our own mortality - we can't have all of them, can we, and the clap to each
one who managed to escape us! - you're watching them in front of sword points and in the flash
of cannon fire with some composure. do you sometimes think off death, marchioness. what is
your mirror telling you. it is always the other one who looks back. it is him we search for when 
we burrow through unknown bodies, away from ourselves. maybe, neither one nor the other exists,
only the void in our soul that crows for its fill. when are you going to put 
your virginal niece on view, marchioness.

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