But maybe that’s how you work… You empty me of love. And then fill that emptiness.
I am a jealous man.
I hate you, God. I hate you as though you existed.
I would rather die than see you with another man
I wrote at the start that this was a record of hate, and walking there beside Henry toward the evening glass of beer, I found the one prayer that seemed to servce the winter mood: O God, You’ve done enough, You’ve robbed me of enough, I’m too tired and old to learn to love, leae me alone for ever.
Love does not end just because we don’t see each other.
To be is to be perceived.
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