When I see you, when I lose myself to the irresistible sight of your eyes, to that evergreen noema, I like to light a cigarette and go back to Heidegger, I like to throw myself into that inexpressible abyss of rootless existence, into Dostoevsky’s night walks in Saint Petersburg, into Andrei Tarkovsky’s long shots and Nostalghia, those essential encounters in the inessential life of a child who lost his virginity to partial doubt and found it back in total doubt. My darling, for you I let go of all faith and hope, of all desires and aspirations, of heaven, and even of the desire of having you for myself. My darling, you make me want to remain a fallen man, and a fallen man I shall remain. Our union is the death of our love.

What is my faith but a pale image of you that I keep when I can’t see you; what need is there for faith when I can behold you?

Oh my dear, I am not just fallen; I have fell and still falling, falling in love with you and the enigma of your presence. But you are as fallen as me. You are as shattered as the impostors of your celestial beauty. For you I fall and shatter myself even more until we become entangled forever, separate but one. Your beauty is in my eye and I am in your beauty.

My abundant love for you is neither for you nor from me; it belongs to the abyss between us, a vacuum that sucks our vitality into itself; we will at last evaporate into oblivion and what remains of us and this love is nothing but the fleeting Hawking Radiation, the sperm of another fallen love.