JAMES HOGGARD
233
getting used to its absence. The fog! Source; source. I don't think
the source exists any more. I know it doesn't. Marshelaine knows
it too. She's known it longer than I have; admitted the absence
longer. And when she laughs now, she seems nervous.... She's
reading this while I write it. She told me to say that she's given
up the ceiling. She said the ceiling's as useless as virginity: at
best an eccentric pretense. I suppose she's right. She often is.
After tonight I'll write no more in our diary. I see no reason to
record either failures or successes-I no longer believe in ex–
tremes, and whatever happens between extremes is a private
matter. She just said I sounded as if I'm in despair. I am. I am
also happy. She said that doesn't make sense. I told her that I'm
avoiding extremes. She wasn't impressed. She did ask me,
however, what I thought about love. I am telling her now that I
believe more in a kiss than in love. She says I'm wise. I accept her
judgment, however ineffectual it may be. She also just told me
that tonight she would kill me. I'm telling her now that if she
tries I might once more believe in extremes.
It
finally happened. Jerome is paralyzed, and I am now free.
I can do anything to him I want. There are many possibilities;
the most intriguing are sexual. He can only move his toes, but I
can move all of me, several parts at once; and since this morning,
when I discovered he could no longer move, I have done just
that. I have danced for him and on him. I have writhed against
him and by his side. I have also shaved off all his hair. And if I
am not mistaken, I think I have seen him smile a great number
of limes. I hope I have. Because the tears I can't stop are all for
him.
