"Ces quelques pas du palier a la chambre d'Albertine, ces
  quelques pas que person ne ne pouvait plus arreter, je les fis avec
 delices, avec prudence, comme plonge dans un element
 nouveau, comme si en avancant j'avais lentement deplace
du bonheur, et en meme temps avec un sentiment inconnu de
toute-puissance, et d'entrer enfin dans un heritage qui
m'eut de tout temps appartenu."*

[This liquid stream of happiness.]

A winter's night,
the Northern Quay,
the Isle of Dogs,
the rabid one is me.
You sip your drink,
undismayed,
and I just said:
"These days,
my heart,
it seems to be
a kind of
hand grenade."

Nothing in the air tugs at the tower blocks,
as you raise your finger and pull the pin.
Nothing much on earth moves down these desolating docks,
do you really think you just scratched your chin?

But you were never Albertine,
and I was never poor Marcel.
Who were you that time round,
Mademoiselle?

Monsieur a peur du parfum des princesses.

And now I act up
and you've a winning frown.
I've contracted love
as I'm devoured down.
Blame my deadening intensity
and tell
me how
you got
the part in this,
my own illicit agony.

I lay it on pretty thick,
you spread yourself pretty thin,
ducking and dividing under every skin.
And my final words as you get up and leave:
"If you're free as air,
I don't want to breathe!"

Good evening,
I am the madman in love with your daughter!
We need to talk,
just you and me.
I saw her last in Eden
or some other Far Eastern quarter,
where the river snakes its way out to sea.

But you were never Albertine, (never, never Albertine)
and I was never poor Marcel. (never, never poor Marcel)
Who were you that time round,
Mademoiselle?