"am i in love? - yes, since i'm waiting." the other never waits. sometimes i want to play the part of the one who doesn't wait; i try to busy myself elsewhere, to arrive late; but i always lose at this game: whatever i do, i find myself there, with nothing to do, punctual, even ahead of time. the lover's fatal identity is precisely: i am the one who waits.

soon (or simultaneously) the question is no longer "why don't you love me?" but "why do you only love me a little?" how do you manage to love "a little"? i live under the regime of too much or not enough; greedy for coincidence as i am, everything which is not total seems parsimonious.

i am so mad to be in love, i am not mad to be able to say so, i double my image: insane in my own eyes (I know my delirium), simply unreasonable in the eyes of someone else, to whom i quite sanely describe my madness: conscious of this madness, sustaining a discourse upon it.

to try to write love is to confront the much of language: that region of hysteria where language is both too much and too little, excessive (by the limitless expansion of the ego, by emotive submersion) and impoverished (by the codes on which love diminishes and levels it).

to want to be pigeonholed is to want to obtain for life a docile reception. as support, the structure is separated from desire: what i want, quite simply, is to be "kept," like some sort of superior prostitute.