"...Marianne what did I do to you? I tried to use you against the night, I tried to make you my audience, Instead I should have been watching you. If my exterior interests weren't so few I could have let you breathe. Maybe you would be thinking of me now. Marianne do you think of me now?
It's hard to see things from the eye of them, at the time I might have written your name on every passing door and it would not have seemed unusual. No wonder you left. A man is supposed to be silent. Being alone is not that terrible. It’s nothing more than a trick. I used to practise it every night whilst you slept. Marianne you made me forget so much. Before I met you I had learnt to play the guitar. I’d forgotten this. I found my guitar the other day sat beneath the bed. It looked like like a clock without the parts. I half expected to find a a cuckoos nest inside. When I tried to play it my fingers bled. You forget the pain of trying to master something that just won’t come to you. It has been so long since I mastered anything. My hands became primitive around you; useless but for closing doors, doing up trousers that sort of thing. I was once a painter too. Or did I dream that? I tried to paint you but gave up when I couldn't find a colour to match to your hair. I have a collection of aborted portraits of you hidden beneath my bed. Each perfect in some way, failed in another. I tried to paste all the perfect parts together but it scared me. No, in fact I'm trying to get off you completely. I want you to know this. The absolution begins some time now. Is absolution correct? The world knows me as sane. That’s the face I bring. Many would take me as dull, well off course, it's a sign of the times, every man has fallen into love with his story till his face has healed of all character. We try to rise above but too often we find our dreams impaled in some way. Certainly yours couldn't last. Not after the way I abused it. I was like the sort of person who locks a dog in a car during the summer. Too much nothingness is cruelty. If you saw me now you would laugh, or you might find it hard not to cry. There is nobody else now, no audience. I drop plates on my own at midnight and tread the broken pieces into my feet. I have a cat that won’t stop urinating under the stairs. We grow lonelier everyday. All I have to think about is your bathroom. It was so immaculate I could always find what I was looking for. How do we understand finality? Death, the beginning of nothing. How do I resolve that I'll never see your bathroom again? That there maybe somebody else sat upon your toilet? It suggests a life without meaning. The age old problem. The grim, ghastly, blunt truth that leaves nothing to be said except that time leads to recovery. So far I have put faith in the human mind as a muscle, like the heart there’s hope it will heal and reformat to a new logic. We are just machines after all. Just like this leg; the leg that’s broken will mend. The body doesn't lie. The body can break, but like an old clock it can be rebuilt. A clock holds it’s own reality. It can break, it can mend..."
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