I read a French novel now, I read and I read, in French.
The letters wander like black ants on the page, confusing.
I want to read this book by some muddy brook. Some deep book.
I will brook no interference.
My wife says she will leave me. She’s not mad enough at me.
My wife knows I will always love her. But I never married.
“A melancholy air can never be the right thing; what you want is a bored air,”
the author writes in the book. In French. The author is Stendhal.
And I’m reading it. And not reading it. Not anymore, because I prefer poetry.
I told my wife to write me some good poetry, but she won’t listen.
Balzac was very prolific, but Stendhal is better. But does it matter?
Pushkin was killed by Georges d’Anthès in January, the saddest month.
I promised my three daughters that I will never die. They’ve never been born.
So do I.

– Peycho Kanev