Look, deep down you should be able to thank me. No one before me and no one better than me has made you a teacher, if you know how to appreciate it; who, like me, endured the fall from the summit of all your affections – everything was a possession – to the arrogant oblivion with which I earned a doggy postponement – a slave’s apprentice -? Who but I, with a half-smile, took on the suspicion, the intrigue, the slander, while training the package of six brother demons, under the orders of the two sons of a thousand whores burning under the eyebrows, love?
So now, I live, and almost awakening, how can I not thank you with all my soul, the stretch marks, and the wrinkles that remain in your damp spirit, that I am not even disturbed by your diaphanous and predictable dissociation from what you always believed was reality and that you never wanted to read from my lips that could not be, that could not be? How can I not be thankful for the return of so much cruelty? How can I not be thankful for this greatness of getting you out of boredom again, though not by pleasure, as in the beginning, but by its opposite, which you so well cultivated?