You said you’d had enough of love and life and poetry. When I asked you why, you told me that you’d used up what you felt was your allotted time and that there was therefore nothing left of you.
‘But there are people who love you,’ I pointed out.
‘One can’t exist purely on the premise of being the object of other people’s affections. Now you’ve made me feel objectified,’ you answered.
‘You’re not just an object, though, are you?’ I countered.
‘I will be when they make a statue of me,’ you replied.