It is an inevitability that a writer, or any artist, shall love their subject. What part of this sentence is worth explaining? Perhaps the "shall." I may, any writer may, pick the most loathsome subject fathomable, and shall come to love it. I caress the hated thing, I place the negligible bump on the tip of my middle finger upon its widow´s peak or curls or shaved head and run it down, down its cheekbones, the rims of its ears, the collarbones, the ribcage, those beautiful and sharp bones defining the hips (or across its sweaty rotund paunch, as it may be), in between the webs of its toes. I fuck its daughters and sew with its mother. I search, with quiet insistence, for the watch it wears. And I am a woman, so anything I spend enough time with, I shall love. And then I shall love it until I perish or I shall love it until I suffocate it with ink and leave it in the trash like a baby from the 90s, from sheer boredom, from the shall of loving it too much. I will be a woman who has fucked the world. Being my lover has nothing to do with touching my body, but letting my pen touch yours.