Post-Self

While settling into this visit with muir partner in Vancouver, I requested a stool be brought into the bedroom so I could sit by their side while they browsed on their computer. I did not think this particularly significant to me until it was placed before me and I saw that it was the very same image of that stool likely still lingering in Jonas's living room.

It was haunting to perch atop it, to sit on this echo of my past on Lagrange. It was haunting because he was my friend and comrade of two hundred and fifty years. It was haunting because I remember the tenderness of time and of touch and of the unspoken tension between a man and a woman who neither had a conniption about closeness. It was haunting because it was he who orchestrated my death.

( Below the cut: Kink, Vulnerability, and Death )