Draft of a draft

Writing so much about myself makes me self-centered... in a bizarre way. As if I were someone outside myself, a character in a book. But I also spend my whole days reading, writing, listening to music, dancing and brooding over the past. I'm lonely like the devil. Did I mention that she must be lonely like the devil? She'll never read me, never see me again. But I will continue to write to her, about her. I am aware of the fact that I'm perfectly intoxicated, but I would easily give up any of my four senses, any organ in my body to be close to her again. Just to touch her with my fingertips, to ask her everything about everything; just to tell her more about all those things of mine that no one understands anyway. Nobody but her, the nymph. She sees, she captures everything. She knows everything. She knows I'm in love with her shadow. And her horizon must be as empty as mine...