Do I love you? Do I love you? I will tell you, but only because later I will make you forget.
You are no equal to me; you are an infant. I was already older than you when Martin Luther nailed his letter to the door of the Schlosskirche. I watched him do it. You barely need to shave.
You bore me insensible with your childish cares, your outbursts, your desperation. I keep you to drink from and to warm my bed. You are a pretty distraction, nothing more. I could never love you.
I’m just playing with my food.
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