[Nettime-bold] [ot] [!nt] \n2+0\

[integer@www.god-emil.dk]

>>it is la tourvel. as for your indivisible ...
>
>
>
>jealous. you, valmont. what a regression. i could understand you if you
>would know him. by the way, i am certain you have met him.
>an attractive man. though he looks like you. even birds migrating flutter
>in the nets of habit though their flights span continents. turn around once.
>his advantage is his youth. in bed as well if you want 2 know. do you want 2 know.
>a dream if i assume you are reality, valmont, begging your pardon. in ten years 
>perhaps there won't be any difference between you if i could turn you into a stone now
>with one loving glance of the medusa. or into a more pleasing substance. a fertile notion:
>the museum of our loves. we would have full houses wouldn't we, valmont, with the statues
>of our putrefied desires. those dead dreams classified according to the alphabet or
>lined up in chronological order, free of the accidents of flesh, not exposed anymore
>to the horrors of change. our memory needs those crutches: one doesn't even remember
>the various bends of cocks, not to mention faces: a haze. la tourvel is an insult.
>i didn't release you into liberty so you could mount a cow, valmont. i could understand it
>if you would take an interest in little volange, a vegetable fresh from a convent's discipline,
>my virginal niece, but la tourvel. i admit she is a mighty piece of flesh but to be shared with
>a husband who has sunk his teeth into it, a loyal husband as i have good reason to fear, and for 
>who knows how many years. what's left for you valmont. the dregs. do you seriously want to poke 
>around in those muddy leftovers. i pity you, valmont. if she were a whore who had learned her trade.
>la merreaux, for example, i would share her with ten men. but the only lady of high society perverse
>enough to enjoy herself in wedlock, a bigot with reddened knees from the pew and swollen fingers
>from wringing her hands before her father confessor. those hands won't touch a genital, valmont,
>without the blessing of the church. i'll bet she's dreaming of immaculate conception when her
>loving spouse lowers himself on her with the conjugal intention to make her a child, once every year.
>what is the devastation of a landscape compared to the despoiling of lust through the loyalty of
>a husband. of course, the count gercourt contemplates the innocence of my niece. in good faith,
>by the way; the bill of sale is filled with the magistrate. and perhaps you are afraid
>of his competition, he already snatched la vressac from under your nose, and you were two years
>younger at the time. you are getting old, valmont. i thought it would be a pleasure for you,
>besides a ride on the virgin, to crown the beautiful animal gercourt with the inevitable antlers
>before he assumes the gamekeeper's office, and all the poachers of the capital raid his forest
>and keep renewing his subscription for his headgear. be a good dog, valmont, and pick up
>the scent as long as it is fresh. a little youth in your bed since the mirror doesn't provide it
>anymore. why lift your leg at a poor box. or are you pining for the alms of marriage.
>shall we give an example to the world and marry each other, valmont. 
>



how could i dare insult you thus, marchioness, in front of all the world. the alms could be poisoned.
be the way, i prefer to select my hunt myself. or the tree i am lifting my leg at, as you call it.
rain hasn't fallen on you in a long time, when did you last look in the mirror, friend of my soul.
i wish i could still serve you as a could but the wind is driving me towards new skies.
i don't doubt i will make the poor box blossom. as for the competition: marchioness, i know
your long memory. you won't forget even in hell that the president preferred tourvel to you.
i am prepared to become the loving tool of your revenge. and i expect a better hunt from
the objekt of my adoration than from your virginal niece, inexperienced as she is in the
arts of fortification. what could she have learned in the convent but fasting and a little
godpleasing masturbation with the crucifix. i bet that after the frost of filial prayers
she burns for the coup de grace to put an end to her innocence. she will run into my knife
before i have even drawn it. she won't even double once: she doesn't know the thrills of the hunt.
what is game to me without the lust of the chase. without the sweat of fear, the choked breath,
the turning upward of the white of the eye. what's left is digestion. my best tricks will make
a fool of me like the empty theatre does of the actor. i will have to applaud myself.
the tiger is a ham. let the rabble fornicate between door and threshold, their time is expensive,
it's costing us money; our noble vocation is to kill time. it demands everything of a human being;
there is too much of it. happy he could make clocks of the world stand still: eternity as an 
eternal erection. time is the void of creation, all of mankind fits into it. for the rabble,
the church has stuffed it with god, we know it is black and hasn't a bottom. if the rabble is going
to find this out, they'll stuff into it after him.






dze 1zt shape ov hope = fear.
dze 1zt appearansz ov neu: horror
terror = beg. ov l!fe [zve! v!er zve!]


     !.d u!sh m! fadzr uaz a shark
     uho tore 2 p!ezez 4o uhalerz

jetzt du = ma! zleep.
2morou morn!ng haz b!n kanzld.











Netochka Nezvanova 
@www.eusocial.com
@www.membank.org
@www.steim.nl






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