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.___________________________
I gave J. a copy of Barthes’s Fragments d’un discours amoureux when we met. An early gesture of my sentiments. The book opens, though, with a reflection on hurt, absence, and agony.
A prolepsis.
One day, when she had already moved out, she told me you think you’re Barthes’s lover, but we both are, you know.
A defected mirror of each other.
