There will come a day when I will stop loving you. There will come a day when you will stop loving me, too. We will be alone with our thoughts, with our things, with our pain and there will be no one with whom to share our pleasure.
Our pleasure- oh, our pleasure. It will become sinister. In its autonomy we will think it deviant and we will loath the necessity of it, the unending greed of it.
You know what I think?” she says. “That people’s memories are maybe the fuel they burn to stay alive. Whether those memories have any actual importance or not, it doesn’t matter as far as the maintenance of life is concerned. They’re all just fuel. Advertising fillers in the newspaper, philosophy books, dirty pictures in a magazine, a bundle of ten-thousand-yen bills: when you feed ‘em to the fire, they’re all just paper. The fire isn’t thinking ‘Oh, this is Kant,’ or ‘Oh, this is the Yomiuri evening edition,’ or ‘Nice tits,’ while it burns. To the fire, they’re nothing but scraps of paper. It’s the exact same thing. Important memories, not-so-important memories, totally useless memories: there’s no distinction—they’re all just fuel
— Haruki Murakami, After Dark (via hazor)
