Fixed in the existence of your gaze.

It is said about Kierkegaard that he cannot be understood without Regine Olsen.

Fate has bent our existences into each other. Steel folds into a mesh of our whispers. We are hermeneutically indeterminately interwoven. Our understanding of the world, and thus all that we are capable of being, clots from the murmuring glimmer of our mutual presence.

We can no longer cut ourselves apart. It is too late. We have already taken hair and skin, speaking and walking, voice and feeling, from each other.