Saturday, January 29, 2005
...sometimes in passing in front of the block of flats I remembered the rainy days when I took my editor there on pilgrimage. But I remembered them without the melancholy that I then thought I should savour one day in the sentiment of not loving her anymore. Because this melancholy, which I similarly projected in advance of the coming indifference, was my love. And this love was no more...
Marcel Proust
// posted by George Manka @ 11:16 AM 
