Very early in my life, it was too late. At eighteen it was already too late. At eighteen I aged. This aging was brutal. This aging, I saw it spread over my features, one by one. Instead of being frightened by it, I saw this aging of my face with the same sort of interest I might have taken for example in the reading of a book. That new face I kept it. It’s kept the same contours, but its matter is destroyed. I have a destroyed face. Let me tell you again: I’m fifteen and a half. It’s the crossing of a ferry on the Mekong.
(Source: aislins, via lovelynymphet)