His forms of madness are mildly fascinating except when she remembers she is supposed to find him a sufficient object of all her attention, as she is for him. She is the center of his universe, he says. She's not quite sure what the universe is. She thought she knew until she tried to put it into words, but her words for it were nothing like his nor like the words of that nice condescending black physicist on television. In her words, the universe is the planets and our guts and dirt and thoughts and time and everything hurdling in sweeping circles tethered to a cosmic center that is surely awful on a scale too bright to fathom without burning the eyeballs of your soul to smithereens. It stood to reason then, she supposed, that he could not see her at all. He insisted on her attention when at the same time it did not seem like he needed her there, that she could warm him as a thought from a guzzillion lightyears away just as well. Better, actually. A million miles away, he was free to imagine Her as anything without having to close his eyes. What he would say if she were physically present would be the same: "I'm really looking forward to my sandwich", he might say, while she was on fire right there in the kitchen. Because a person cannot look directly at a sun.
"Suffocate Isolate"
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40 lightyears away - lee harvey osmond
