I am Erich Maria Remarque.
I am a beautiful voluminous-waved hair prose genius.
I am with a collar behind my neck.
Remarque did not even have either one of these, just a hat.
And a black obelisk.
I am Remarque. Within myself. And I am Remarque's Ludwig. Within myself.
I am a World War I veteran at the age of twenty.
I am hyperinflation.
I am nationalism.
I am the contempt of both.
I am the death of the protagonist.
I am the death of the author.
I am Ludwig's crippled Isabelle, too.
I am Ludwig's crippled Isabelle when she says, I, too, am going to go away soon. I am weary and weary of my weariness.
I play the piano. Clumsy, yes, I know. Like Ludwig.
Either at piano or at life; clumsy, and genius, simultaneously.
Ridiculous and genius; us.
What for are we alive for?
Yes, for what am I alive?
And that one hair strand against our warm lip corners even bent over from the threatening and malign desire to know everything.
God, you have a beautiful name, you lucky wonderful scum. I wish I would be Remarque. Remarque sounds almost as beautiful as Claude.