I imagine myself after a year married with Amy Winehouse. Any kind of physical contact would already be impossible; there would be, among us, a poignant and total disgust. There would be no dialogue; clearly, we would not even have character affinity. If any passion had preceded marriage, then it would now be properly buried, cooled by time and temper discrepancies. With absolute certainty, I would be already being betrayed uncovered. And then I imagine myself, in the next room, listening to her daily rehearsing. I wouldn’t ask for a divorce.
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