Jean-Paul Sartre | Simone de Bouvier

too much of her too much silk skin, brick nipple, face of porcelain, too much of this room too much cane chair and claw-foot table and orange divan too much orange-papered wall and foxed window shade, too much cafe still clinging like the smell of pipe smoke to us in too much wood-plank bed too much stack of café saucer, too much mirror showing mirror showing mirror too much gilt frame, too much sheep-back hunching of bodies all around, too much night street after the café too much plane tree and shadow of plane tree on the cobbled street too much hooded lamp and boulder row of Renault, too much stairway and crystal of bare lightbulbs and shadow down the hall and hard brass doorknobs, all of it too much, all of it with no reason for being there, too much gape of her lips, too much gape of her loins, too much of her and too little of me: I think I'm going to be sick

one eye dead, one eye drifts away, neither of them looking at me, and I thrash in the vague light on the crumpled sheet not from his touch but from his sightlessness: I have vanished and my invisibility shudders through me like sex and I can hear him thinking inside that wall-eyed head sitting on that tiny body with its tiny parts and he knows me not, but he knows he knows me not, and I know he knows he knows me not, and so I am even more alone in this bed in this room in this shuddering trembling body of mine and I am free