On Segalen

It’s a strange midnight : as I lie here almost sleepy from the blue gin, reading letters not written to me by a lover not mine, remembering the taste of kisses that were stolen in another life. I have heard, my dear, although I am not sure, that old wine is more potent. What, then, happens to old kisses? The ones that remain in the air, in our eyes, in our perfectly preserved dead bodies, the ones still undetectable by modern microscopes. My dear, write to me letters as present and as hidden as ancient kisses. Write to me, not from this life which is not ours, but from another one: centuries old, where sitting on the steps, we are reading steles that will be written sometime in the future.

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