“Adam,” said Colette. “What ever is the matter? You are more distant and brooding than even your usual distant, brooding self.”
Adam Dunn stooped to extinguish his cigarette in an exquisite coil of hound poo. Ce que je viens de faire est le seul art dans le monde, he thought to himself. “Colette,” he said. “The boulevards at once console and mock me.”
“I have a searing love for you,” she said.
“Meaningless,” said Adam Dunn. “Let us make love for no other reason than force of ritual.”
(Curtsy: @LukeHoekstra, for bringing the abovely linked dispatch to the author’s attention)