Random thought via the never-sleeping interpreter. He was always carefully measured, precisely attuned to effect and appearance. Would it be, then, wrong to assume his appearance of haste that night to also be a precise instrument? No shirt, the ubiquitous trench coat hanging open. A planned exhibit of my ability to drive him to my door with my words? Or a demonstration of what I would be losing. The Grecian Urn body. He proved in that case that he cared only for what he supposed I desired of him. Perhaps he could never fathom the possibility of my wanting his mind more than his body. Perhaps he fell in love with his self-portrait.

Your bones
will clatter in my skull
until I bury you
in words.