He. His thoughts were carefully controlled by concealed cameras, and everyone and everything had to fit into place, as in a masterpiece. His task was to detect those hidden eyes: beyond their range, indeed, there were dead angles. And in his depths. His life was weirdly lighted, its strangeness was always novel. No fill lights were permitted, which would have softened the shadows. The music also played its part. The soundtrack was confusedly triumphal, and through its fog would lead him into his bright future. That is the reason why he deplored, in his diary, the dominance of dying words: people became religious, out of fear, and their praying noise helped even the agnostic. Everyone and everything was noted in his noted diary, which was greater than himself and allowed him not only to have aliases, other names and pretensions, but also to change selfhood while keeping the same name; it allowed him more freedom, through narration, while he allowed his tale to drop and murder names while keeping its main characters alive. He allowed contours to lose their precision and loosen (descriptions need disturbances, from time to time): so, once, in his diary, he was given a friendly ring, unexpectedly, one night. It was the author, truly. The call was about sex, just to revive his concentration. Bugger. The author loved his bulky uniform minutely described in the diary, which aroused a masochistic emotion in cute ladies. And in the text he kept looking at their buttocks, while bending over almost to touch them: that night the diary’s guests were all young females, and they took pleasure from his sodomizing gaze, while eating Eden apples with hideous perforations. The worm in the apple is always a formal problem: its depths can do no harm, while its appearance can.
She. In bed, she had been able to understand that he was definitely the protagonist in the diary, and her man. Of course, there was a bit of distortion, reality was not correct in every detail in the diary (besides, what had been even in one set of circumstances could have been odd in other pages). However, there were striking similarities between the truth and the text, although in the story he was much older than her. She did not know when she began to suspect that he was being unduly concerned with her body. Initially, she noticed that he inopportunely looked lustfully at her legs, but then the thing went on, and once she dreamt that he was raping her. While being seized, she had an orgasm, and after many visions she realized she wanted him in daytime. Thus, she decided to have a casual meeting in the diary, and dropped in on him. At first, she played unassuming. Deceitfully, though. She made him a proposition with her eyes, but he declined: to everything its season, to every instant its reading, but different films of time were interwoven - some past, some present, something predictable - and their successive signs seemed synchronous, on that page of the diary. Also, his stage was wrongly arranged, on the page: she was the only key-light, already. No fill-lights did he allow.
They. What is the twitchy image in the aftermath, the restless memory of pleasure after making love? She did not know when she began to witness her future as already happened in his diary. Reading it, she had immediately understood it was all about her: there was something familiar in the depicted bodies, a unifying feature in the described buttocks, something in their walking style. At last, of course, she had found herself lying in bed with him, and then riding again her tireless steed, her potent stallion pouring with sweat (sic), and riding, and riding, oh god! (An exclamation can exhibit excitement, admiration, fright, or anger: unaware of expedient omissions, she would succeed in performing the whole lot.) But first she needed to know his name in the diary (discoveries of real life). However, the chronicle in question had been written twice (at least), in different times. The versions looked perfectly alike, but they were not, though second times occasionally turn out to be as powerful as first ones, and orgasms succeed in removing, though temporarily, the opacified deposits of overpowering stain that in time have become paper and ink itself, flesh and blood of a discursive body. After those orgasms, she would rather have had too little story than too much; but then, with the diary’s help, she would be finding again a surprising resemblance between her and the account (she was wittier, maybe, though less original, without fail). However, she would not be able to understand whether the text was about her retained past or her manifest future. In fact, it was a misty diary: the story was confused and, while proceeding, her name would change... the telephone would ring and his erotic breath would tenderly pet her ear telling her that he had come across another lady in the diary and brought her to his home. The other one was still there, “working on me” (sic). Sick! And she would find herself furiously jealous, also because the rival would eat only organic food, smoking a fungicidal cigarette for every mouthful. Her mouth… two sympathetic lips (close up, in the diary), a distant body (now, full frame, please). In essence, the new lady was like her, benignly available, as a rule; in fact, unapproachable. Were he the underprivileged boy to penetrate her private compass, she would back up at once: protective lines would make her conversation appropriate in the diary. Philanthropes and masterpieces relied on their neighbour’s intelligence, she held (all kindness and skill in work come from one’s envy of one’s neighbour, the new lady in the diary gathered). He loved their careless smile, their tiptoeing as on a catwalk (track with the camera, now, both bums). At last, a moral bias: that farce was a blank female always adjusting herself to her lover’s pleasure. (The diary showed the “how” of reaching fame: performance. But the “what”... that is invariably a problem of form: no reader looks for contents, the only subject matter of written memory is “how”.) And she was positive now that he was sodomizing the new lady on a page of the diary. Her body had naked thighs, from knees to hips. She too had exposed thighs, it is her sexy uniform: black socks, and a grey apron over an unsubstantial sweater which would not cover her cold buttocks. No panties, but plenty of readers with penetrating eyes. Conventions and close-ups: in the diary, each body part was well visible as in Egyptian pictures before the introduction of desire. Yet, sometimes the author would allow himself to hide the foot while disclosing the ankle. A little ballet on paper, now, to amuse readers and guests. And then, she turned and strangled him.