I think here I will leave you. It has come to seem there is no perfect ending. I am a trembling in your throats; your words are smeared with my blood. You who condemned me . I thought I had to become more than I was, more than I'd been. Indeed, there are infinite endings. Or perhaps, once one begins, there are only endings. What is more humiliating than finding the object of your desire unworthy? Coveting it .