No, actually, I don’t want to discuss these things. I don’t want to know about your childhood, your insecurities, your secret dreams as well your definition of existence. I don’t want to know about the first time you have bruised your heart, or your favourite scent — whether you like Chrysanthemum or old manuscripts. You see, I don’t want to discover your flaws and the fundamental errors of your being. I don’t want to battle acceptance to have you fully — I don’t want any internal struggle for that matter. I, as of the moment, am not fit for that. I am filled with contempt from anything that clashes against my inherent demons — ideals, principles, preferences, perfection. I have been bleeding these past few months, and I admit, I am approaching loss in that battlefield. So let us not make this harder for each other and save ourselves. Let’s have some stupid small talk instead, and kill the conversation eventually. I don’t want to bury you underneath my skin, until you become a vital part of me. I don’t want that. I don’t want that. I don’t want that.