Then it seems to me that his calm comes from my ego being too familiar, too unimportant for him, as if he had rejected me as waste, a superfluous something-made-human, as if I were merely the dispensable product of his rib, but at the same time an unavoidable dark tale accompanying and hoping to supplement his own bright story, a tale that he, however, detaches and delimits. Thus I am the only one who has anything to settle, and above all I must and can explain myself, but only to him. He has nothing to settle, no, not him.
