If you love me, you hate me. And if you hate me, you love me
Now, if you don't hate me, most beloved, don't love me.
It's by Nicharchus, a Hellenistic whose abstruseness is on the brink of becoming fashionable again. That is, we've reached another Seventeenth Century, another Sad Pavan for These Distracted Times; the Twentieth fooled itself into thinking that it was an age of light, where clarity shone forth upon every positivist dictum and all was comprehensible to any. Welcome back to the age of the difficult. I can't stop the process, I can only smile inly at the growing worth of my prose style, at the bullish stock of the cipherous. What's Donne is Donne.
Current Music: I was happy, which is not like me at all; for an hour, I was feeling ten feet tall. And I had myself a ball -- I was heading for a fall: ¶ I got all dress'd up in dreams and I waited by the door, but you never even called to tell me you don't love me anymore. You're so pretty, ev'rybody falls for you. ¶ In this city, it's the only thing to do, so I cried for sixteen days, and I cried in sixteen ways: ¶ I got all dress'd up in dreams and I waited by the door, but you never even called to tell me you don't love me anymore. ¶ You said you'd arrive at eight, but you're seventeen days late: ¶ I got all dress'd up in dreams and I waited by the door, but you never even called to tell me you don't love me anymore. ¶ So I wander in the rain, as I slowly go insane: ¶ I got all dress'd up in dreams and I waited by the door, but you never even called to tell me you don't love me anymore, which is by the Sixths.