I have discovered – or rather, I have allowed myself to be swept away by the discovery – that one does not fall in love with what one can touch, but precisely with that which is always just a fraction away, a sliver, an echo of yourself, the contour that is outlined in the light and yet is simultaneously born in the dark, a shadow that lets itself be followed willingly as long as you do not try to look it straight in the eye, for then it flees, growing thinner, distant, almost mocking in its elusiveness, and the stronger the light that calls it to life, the sharper it draws itself, the more painfully clear it presents itself, and the more impossible it becomes to actually reach it, for the distance between myself and my own extension grows the closer I want to get, as if love itself were a paradox, a game that one can never win. And I, wandering through rooms where lamps flicker and the sun breaks through curtains, chase my own desire, always thinking I’m about to seize it—yes, it, for I’ve given my shadow a feminine face, a body that moves with an independence I don’t possess—and always I’m left with an empty hand, an outstretched arm, a breath that touches nothing but air and more air, and I get lost in the thought that perhaps following the shadow, chasing this unattainable silhouette, is more than enough, perhaps even the essence of all love: desire itself as the goal, not its fulfillment.