Love, love—my foot, passion, yes, but what sort? It all began because I didn’t know, just didn’t know who she was, what she was like, she was complex, blurry, inscrutable (as I had thought while staring at the continents, archipelagos, and nebulae of the ceiling), she was intangible and tiresome, I could imagine her this way or that, in a hundred thousand situations, consider her from one side or another, lose her, then find her again, turn her every which way (I wove my trend of thought as I was looking over the terrain between the house and the kitchen, watching the little white trees tied to stakes with ropes), but there could be no doubt that her emptiness was sucking me in, soaking me up, it was she and she alone, yes, yes, but, I wondered, as my eyes became lost in the twists and turns of the bent, damaged drainpipe, what did I want with her? To caress? To torture? To humiliate? To adore?