"The Deconstruction Not of Heteronormativity. Nor of Desire. Of Interpersonal Interaction."

Briullov is in town! I'm excited to give him a new example of my very own [derivative] paranoiac-critical method. (Cf. Dobuzhinsky's "Kiss")

When we had a drunk lunch together, just the two of us, the Wrathful Poet Goddess smiled at my fashion antics. She stared out the window at a cityscape marred by poor snow collection. Maybe dim sunlight scarred gray cloud cover.

She said, or at least, the literary construct of her memory I've created [that which is called "The Wrathful Poet Goddess," here devoid still more of real-world referent] confessed, "He definitely loves me. I love him, too, but he knew before me. He said it before I did. It's interesting, isn't it, to feel that way: sometimes I wonder what it'd be like if he didn't love me so much."

She said, "I love the Wrathful Poet Goddess I see in his eyes. He sees everything that's good about me; he sees only the good in me. I want to be like the person he understands me to be."

She said, "He makes me laugh. Isn't that the most important?"

I would have said, "The unstable subject projects his oscillations."

I would have said, "The know-it-all is most dangerous when he suspects he's wrong."

I would have said, "I don't know what to say to you, то робостью, то стыдностью томим. That's when I know it's gone too far, the Russian. The abyss. I don't know the tightrope. The funny thing is the free fall doesn't feel anything particular."

Homer's said to me, too many times to count, "You can't mask everything you feel emotionally, irrationally, in the guise of an intellectual conversation."

Cf. Rilo Kiley's Execution of All Things