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In Hong Kong, I read Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s “Love in the Time of Cholera”, in which the hero must wait until his seventies before being united with his beloved. In a moment of Melancholy, I inscribed my copy: Angelina, I will love you always. Adam and sent it to her, via Jacinta. It was an unhealthy book for me to have read at that time, and to have then inflicted on Angelina. Just wait long enough and somehow the right people will die. The starts will align, we’ll get over ourselves and we’ll be together. And in the meantime, what?
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