For me, Rémi says, the fascination with futility was never temporary. It was ever-present, he says, beneath the surface, bubbling over the surface, dousing my entire being with the grotesque texture of bodily fluids.
He takes a moment to loosen his tie, becomes temporarily lucid, apologizes for his red-faced rambling, and inhales what remains in his glass before continuing.
What I mean is, he says, I never stopped concerning myself with the futility. I never became so satisfied as to let my eyelids close on what mattered most (the only matter, he adds).
If only because there is nothing else to do when you are eating yourself alive, he says; if only because there is nothing else to do when you are eating yourself to die.