...a deathly serenade...

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
A
my room, that I truly felt the idea of arriving back
to London—like the broken finding solace in the
broken. I countered that Lucia’s wings were
clipped, if anything, and there remained a distinct
difference, I thought as quickly as the day after
Leila first arrived, alone. It just occurred that my
mind was neither able to make a decision on either
of the two women here. There always remained an
option, I thought as Leila stumbled around more
sentences one Saturday evening, but it just
occurred that London represented something else
at the time, sure there was all that was happening
with Antonin, which I felt was drawing towards
me (rather than away), just bearing the severity of
the situation, yet it was Leila that provided the
thought (to leave for London) the necessary
lifeblood. I mentioned this to Lucia to check for
signs of pasture.
____________________
It was when I stood in between Mustapha and
Lucia that I noticed what was against the wall on
the same side as the doorway. It was a copy of
what I noted as Picasso’s Les demoiselles
d’Avignon, it’s quite large, I thought, I am startled
by it—I just looked at the picture: the primitivism,
the colours, the darkness of sexuality, and the
mood it emanated. I felt like I was intruding by it.
And I experienced an uncomfortable feeling;
increased nausea, something like the nausea
Sartre tried to explain via his character Roquentin:
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