Much like Jean-Baptiste Grenouille, I wish to be far removed from others. I want to live beneath a mountain and do nothing other than occupy myself with what’s going on in my head; to be lost in a reality where conformity is as useless as the prayers of those who kneel before God asking for the world to be a better place. If God exists, he isn’t listening, so do something else, like make sad people laugh when no one else shows an interest, or sit with a beaten dog all through the night so it won’t feel scared anymore of the slightest of sounds. Closing my eyes in a darkened room, the smell of olden days is overwhelming. Was I really the same person? Did I love her as much as I claimed? The answer is yes on both counts, but nothing stays the same. The love in my heart burns just as fierce, but people don’t interest me as much as they used to. Why should they? Everyone is the same. They claim to stand for something, but given half the chance, they change quicker than the hands of a magician, or some kind of wizard. Damned lovers. Bored lovers. In between lovers waiting at a bus stop to be taken to their place of work, or maybe it’s a gas chamber. Judging by the looks on their faces, you’d be hard-pressed to tell the difference. And then comes Saturday, and everyone’s free to get drunk and fuck and pretend as if we’re the same as we were back in the glory days of our childhood, but we’re not, and every hangover lets us know without fail that we’re as far removed from our former selves as possible. On the horizon, her vagina looms bigger than the sun. In my mouth, her scent tickles the back of my throat. What is unseen interest me most; and what is obscene is the biggest turn on. Not sexual, but withheld. Not perverse, but secret.