At some point not so long ago I began to prefer the company of women. At roughly the same time my muse left me and I came to prefer the blues and string quartets to rock and electronica. I am hesitant to label the cause: the change has worked its way through my existence slowly and irrevocably; I can only remember by fits and by inference what I was and so I can trace nothing except a narrow passage sitting in front of Nefeli with a teacup in my hands that I turned on its saucer: when I divined by the position of the handle whether it was love or shame that drove the world; whether it was better to be an artist or a saint.

I don’t believe that I have ever preferred the company of men. But before I learned what it was to be alone I liked my own company best of all, and only since I was truly caught by a certain gravity – tamed, if I may use a dangerous word – has it seemed more natural to explain things to a woman, even one I do not love, than to continue to hold them too tight by the hand or to dirty them in the company of men.

Parvu