Thursday, Dec. 16, 2004 - 7:05 p.m.

I do not want us beset by friction, or tempest tossed. I want us as when we are in our element, when the words, wine and senses are free. I want your eye in mine, and mine in yours. I do not want duplication, or supplication. I want to reach out and pull you towards me.

The truth is too much, and too little. The truth is that I have you, but I do not have all of you. That is too little. The truth is that I have you and I could lose you at any moment. That is too much. I am a fool, I cannot resist solipsism in thought, I make the particular into the general. You, you, my K, you are particular, you are individual, and it would be an obscenity to admit impediments to our equation. It must not be so.

Does it seem that I am far away from you sometimes? Your perception is a reality. I must absent myself from you at moments, for there are no guarantees, none. You offer yourself to me, but you do not not say that you, my sustenance, are not limited by time. I cannot abide an �exeunt omnes�. I will not. I want to seize you, now, and whisper to you, and break you. I need to know the answer, I need to know what will be.

There is not a moment now for intellectuality. I cannot think for one moment longer while thought can lead to cowardice or paralysis. What shall become of us? What does it all mean? I am brim-full with doubt so that I almost cannot see you any longer. My eyes are clouded with this substance that tinges all our moments together with blue. Every time that phone rings, every time I become aware again of the lies that are necessary, I am green and blue and red. Green with envy of the one who really has you, blue with the realisation that my wounds are not enough to change your course, red with passion nonetheless. I cannot think of such disappointments when you are as you are, soft to the touch.

It is more than marvelous that I did meet you, and I often marvel at our meeting. It might have been otherwise, but it was not. Maybe God is really a man holding an abacus. Did some abstruse set of figures match? Were you released to me then? I knew on our first promenade that I had to taste you, that I had to have you. I have tasted and I have had, and experience has only taught desire to increase. We must not be even, we must not be tidily continuous. I must lunge for you, seize your waist and draw you closer. Only to take you up and away from here for ever.

Troilus is dead, there are Xs written all over him.

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