I seem to wish to speak about nothing but on the subject of her and of the passion that swirls within my breast. Nothing else interests me, and so my wit devotes itself to nothing else. I can may still be able to speak seriously on certain other subjects, mostly those of a dialectical nature – for when does reason not desire a challenge? – but I will not be able to take it further; to enhance it or remark upon it with a twist of witticism. In short, my manner will reveal my disinterest. The conversation withers. And when it does, when the soil turns bare and fertile, I will always attempt to plant the seeds of my passion; I will wish for the seeds to grow into a tree on whose branches hang the sweet fruits of her persona. Then I shall be able to speak all about her, breathe life into the mannequin which I hold quietly in my imagination. There is such an incomprehensible joy in being able to speak of her and of the longing in my heart. It is as if to grant myself a little taste of what it would be like should I earn her affection and thus be able to speak of her as freely and frequently as any enthralled lover might. I don’t suppose she will vacate my mind any time soon. She continues to hold the throne and so the reins to all my thought. So forgive me if I come to write only of such selfish and frivolous affairs.
I suspect you are wondering right now, why I am choosing to reveal all these veritably private information. And I’ll tell you: because I can no longer bear the torment of imprisoning so wild a passion. It claws and pounds at the walls of my heart. And those walls have worn and grown thin. From a crack, the passion bursts forth, full of life and hope. It roars mightily, for it has no other motive than to announce its presence.