Thus my sorrow always renewed, and seeming in my eyes more lost than ever,--as in the eyes of all who might have watched me had I not been condemned to be forgotten by all forever!--I hungered for his kindness more and more. With his kisses and his friendly arms, it was really heaven, a sombre heaven into which I entered and where I longed to be left, poor and deaf and dumb and blind. Already it had grown into a habit. I thought of us as two good children, free to wander in the Paradise of sadness. We were congenial to each other. Much moved, we used to work together. But after a profound caress he would say: "How queer it will seem to you when I am no longer here--all you have gone through. When you no longer have my arm beneath your head, nor my heart for resting place, nor these lips upon your eyes. For I shall have to go away, very far away, one day. After all I must help others too: it is my duty. Not that it's very tempting...dear heart..." Right away I saw myself, with him gone, my senses reeling, hurled into the most horrible darkness: death. I used to to make him promise never to leave me. He made it twenty times, that lovers' promise. It was as vain as when I said to him: "I understand you."
I hate it when things written one hundred years before I was born directly relate to how I'm feeling. Rimbaud was exactly my age (almost to the day) when he wrote that. Motherfuck why can't I be a literary genius?
