I don’t dream of possessing you. Why should I? It would only debase my dream life. To possess a body is to be banal. And to dream of possessing a body is perhaps even worse, if that’s possible: it’s to dream of being banal – the supreme horror.

And since we wish to be sterile, let us also be chaste, for there is nothing more shameful and ignoble than to forswear what in Nature is fertile while holding on to the part we like in what we’ve forsworn. There are no halfway noble attitudes.

Let us be chaste like dead lips,* pure like dreamed bodies, and resigned to being this way, like mad nuns.

May our love be a prayer… Anoint me with seeing you, and I will make the moments I dream of you into a rosary, with my tediums for Our Fathers and my anxieties for Hail Marys. Let us remain eternally like a male figure in one stained-glass window opposite a female figure in another stained-glass window… And between us humanity passing by, shadows whose footsteps coldly echo… Murmurs of prayers, secrets of ..... Sometimes the air fills up with ..... incense. At other times a statuesque figure sprinkles holy water on this side and that side… And we will always be the same stained-glass windows, with the same colours when the sun strikes us, the same outlines when the night falls… The centuries will not touch our vitreous silence… In the world outside civilizations will come and go, revolutions will break out, feasts will whirl and rage, peaceful and orderly peoples will carry on… While we, my unreal love, will always have the same useless expression, the same false existence, and the same .....

Until one day, at the end of various centuries and empires, the Church will finally collapse and everything will cease…

But we, oblivious to it, will remain – I don’t know how, or in what space, or for how long – eternal stained-glass windows, hours of naïve design and coloration executed by some artist who for ages has slept in a Gothic tomb on which two angels, their hands pressed together, freeze the idea of death in marble.