I say to-may-to, she says to-mah-to

No, it would never work, despite the garden of sensual and intellectual delights I often found myself in.

Why? She's hyperaesthetic. With fine feelings, sensitive, nervous, excitable. Abnormally tender, constantly wounded, all nerves. She reacts to all the harsh, strong colors and tones of everyday life as if they were shrill and ugly, even psychically painful. And then the cramping of her self into herself - her volcanic writing. A loaded gun always cocked and ready.

Me? She called me anaesthetic. In my presence, alone or in rare company, she felt at times in contact with something flavorless and boring. Beyond my flat affect, a dark, hollow-eyed nothing-affective anemia. Behind an ever-dull facade, which twitches uncertainly with every expiring whim, nothing but broken pieces, black rubbish heaps, yawning emotional emptiness, and the cold breath of an arctic soullessness.

Is that a summer breeze blowing into my bedroom? Nah - it must be Marianna, waiting for me to succumb to sleep so she can gently poke me with her horns and tempt me in my vulnerable and receptive state to marry her again! Silly succubus.