Of time you would make a stream upon whose bank you would sit and watch its flowing
But these days I can’t talk to you. All I can do is listen and nod my head and pretend I understand all about cultural variants, and neo-Boulean mathematics, and post-symbolic logic, and I feel more and more stupid, and when you leave the apartment, I have to stare in the mirror and scream at myself: `No, you’re not growing duller every day! You’re not losing your intelligencel You’re not getting senile and dull-witted. It’s Charlie exploding forward so quickly that it makes it appear as if you’re slipping backwards.’ I say that to myself, Charlie, but whenever we meet and you tell me something and look at me in that impatient way, I know you’re laughing.
We are like sculptors, constantly carving out of others the image we long for, need, love or desire, often against reality, against their benefit, and always, in the end, a disappointment, because it does not fit them.
René Magritte - Golconda, 1953