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You say, imagination is a locus and breeding ground for the scribblecoccus bacteria that kill relationships. It's true, my dear, my imagination can do a lot, let say, look down a dress or an abyss of cosmos, fluoresce in infrared light, flash with a citation of fictional philosopher, invent a new poetics, but it isn't meant for you and your incoming incarnation. At last, love seems to be an act of nature but promissory note or debenture - the noon, the sudden twilight, the eclipse. * См. перевод в комментарии 1. |
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