“He lives with a winter fruit,a banal and cheap fruit, a supermarket fruit. A small, ordinary fruit that has none of the indulgence of the orange nor the originality of the grapefruit. A fruit organized into segments, practical and easy to eat, precut, ready for use, proffered in its casing.”
“ I can’t hope for anything more, I can’t hope for anything better, and yet the void that I feel is immense, and I am always waiting for him to fill it. But what could possibly fill what is
already full?”