Some lovers chat like old friends when they are making love, keep each other informed, as if they were engaged upon a common house purchase. For others making love is their language; their bodies articulate themselves into adjectives and verbs. For us it was the conjunction of the mind and opposition of the stars. She transformed me, wordlessly, into a mass of sensations, resolved me, like a symphony, into a crescendo of major chords. But she never told me how she felt, never counted the ways in which she loved me, nor did she ever ask my opinion or ever enquire after any of my desires. She watched herself, and me, from a terrible, uncompromising distance.
[Hallucinating Foucault, Duncker, P.]
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