And one peculiar point I see

as one of many ones of me as truth is gathered I rearrange inside out outside in inside out outside in perpetual change.

intimidation is being confronted with an alien end. The end of a peculiar kind of loving, and as always, the beginning of newer ways of living. And again under imagined watchfulness you grapple with alien apparatus that you've gathered from deliberately discarded debris. He unsheaths his contempt and you're struck by the ease with which this tenuous intimacy is built, singlehandedly, without even the pretence of eye contact. You think you're being pushed into an illdefined place as you upset the backdrop of his comfort, and you're reminded of blowing at the tassels of a tablecloth while you hid under a table. His purposive impatience makes you uneasy, and you squirm in the dullness of your encroachment. But maybe now you can see this uneasiness is only your inability to find the autopilot switch. We forget this in the dullness of our hero-like glare. And that this space we're encountering we have both created only to slake our ennui and for our search for quick gratification.