You're ignoring me today, as usual. On days like this I think that it's almost easier to deal with your scorn, since at least when you're rejecting me you are forced to acknowledge that I'm there. Then again, on those occasions I feel that even being invisible to you is less painful. You think I drink too much, well, you're the cause. After all, the only thing to do when the one person whose approval you've ever sought either rejects you or refuses to acknowledge your existence is to numb the pain--and the best way to do that is with wine. Only it just causes you to despise me even more, which causes me to drink more; it's a never-ending cycle.

I know you wish I'd go away--indeed, you make no secret of your feelings towards me; it's all too clear that you think of me as a drunken pest, yet at times I wonder if you ever stop to think about why I come to these meetings in the first place. The answer, my "friend," is quite simple: you. I come to hear the strength of your convictions, to revel in the depth of your belief. You're right, I don't believe in the revolution--Republic, Empire, or monarchy, it's all the same to me. I can't force myself to believe in your cause, or any other. But you were always wrong when you accused me of not believing in anything, for I believe in you wholeheartedly. Perhaps one day I'll tell you so; you will, like always, assume I'm joking and hate me all the more for not taking seriously a subject that's so dear to you, but all the same I think I'd like you to know. And that, Enjolras, is why I come to listen to you students discuss your little revolution--I'm drawn, inexorably.

I have often asked myself why I bother, what it is that makes you so important to me, and one day as I was listening to you through a haze of absinthe it hit me. You're real, you see, and full--of life, of strength, of belief. I, on the other hand, have always been an empty shell, incapable of believing, feeling, caring. I have never touched--or been touched by--another life. And I was able to live like that for several years before I met you and it became too much to bear. Wine helped a little, but soon I was forced to move on to stronger things--brandy, and later absinthe--in order to dull the emptiness inside. An emptiness which becomes worse when faced with your completeness, yet I am unable to resist the compulsion that brings me here day after day. You probably think I come to mock you and attempt to undermine morale among your followers, but I never intend to do so. Each day I make a promise to myself that I will merely sit at my table with my bottle and listen to you, hoping to absorb some of that dedication and conviction which fills you, and not interfere. And nearly every time I fail. I swear to you, Enjolras, that it's not intentional--I honestly can't help myself! It's just that. . . well, when I've perhaps had a bit too much to drink, as usual, and am feeling sorry for myself--also as usual--in your presence I begin to imagine that perhaps some of your belief has, maybe, rubbed off on me at last, and I open my mouth expecting to say something full of fire and charisma the way you always do. And by the time my ears have caught up with what it is I'm actually saying, it's too late; my natural cynicism, the result of a lifetime of rejections and betrayals, has perverted all I had meant to say in agreement with you. Thus I myself provide you with yet another reason to despise me. . . story of my life.

I'm perfectly aware that I have managed to destroy any chance I may have once had of being considered your friend; I wish you knew that, no matter what you do or say to me, I am just that, however. Friendship is not always reciprocal--you, I know, have no desire to be my friend, but that doesn't change the fact that I am yours, and always will be. When I hear that your revolution has started, I will be there. If you by some miracle see fit to inform me of it yourself, I will gladly fight--and die--at your side for what I know to be a lost cause.