One day this long trip will come to an end, and I will no longer be of your interest. Your morbid curiosity for a girl who lost her mind on the other side of the planet will recede, and you will slowly get up from your chairs and leave the theater. Look at her. She lives where we live, she eats what we eat, her heart is perpetually broken—what good is she now that all-too-common body is surrounded by Roman letters?
I once escorted a friend of mine to dinner with some friends of his. It was a rather uneventful gathering, except that for the duration of the meal I was invisible to them. At some point they introduced me to a newcomer as a nameless being, undeserving of recognition as a human—until my friend mentioned my current whereabouts. As he (not I) pronounced the two magic syllables, I sprung to life from thin air before their eyes. That’s how I understood I represent nothing but shock value to most of the people I meet. Once it’s gone, I’ll be gone as well.
It should be okay, I guess. Le monde sans moi, c’est la même chose.