Intermezzo

by Sally Rooney

The inexchangeable pleasure of her conversation. Just to walk the streets saying things, anything, just the act itself, walking together at the same speed, and talking, purely to amuse and please one another, to make each other stupidly laugh, for no further accomplishment, no higher purpose, to let their words rise and disperse forever in the damp brackish air.

Sensitivity to beauty in inanimate objects. Generally sensitive, yeah. No, I don’t like being around ugly things. You know, if something is really ugly, I can even get a bad feeling.

Life, after all, has not slipped free of its netting. There is no such life, slipping free: life is itself the netting, holding people in place, making sense of things. It is not possible to tear away the constraints and simply carry on a senseless existence.

incel.