But the vain memory of our lost days
There is no love
(Not really, not enough).
We live unaided,
We die abandoned.
The appeal for pity
Resonates in the void,
Our bodies are crippled
But our flesh is eager.
Gone are the promises
Of a teenage body,
We enter an old age
Where nothing awaits us
But the vain memory
Of our lost days,
A convulsion of hate
And naked despair.
Michel Houellebecq
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