Entering he comes to her, the object of his affection, or if not object, subject of that which—no—no thought!—no thought please have no thought, for what I know is: if they leave this event, if this happens, if these potential lovers un-tether from their truth, then—how mournful do you have to feel before you die? How mournful? It is local, the pain is there, like a chair in the corner of a painting by Van Gogh or Schiele, or like, if you were sitting by your favorite person in the world, on a log by a lake, and also beside you on that log was a turtle, sitting there too. And that is what my anguish is like. Just there too, like the turtle. In its shell and out, turtling. Resolute and happy. Master of not letting go. And I will sometimes go to a city, far away from here, and go drinking and dancing. And fall into movement and fencing. But I always come back to the pain. Unless you are the king of resistance and the absolute master of not letting go, of going and going, faithful to a form that divides you, delivered upon an amorous episode, able to remain, to remain and keep going—those moments come only to go. Said the turtle. In its shell and out, turtling. Master of not letting go.