Last night I heard you talk to yourself, again; the words made hardly any sense. I stood and watched you look in the mirror, your face convulsed in an expression of terror. “What did you see?”, I asked. “Beauty. The ultimate essence of Beauty.” “Then why are you so frightened? ”Because real Beauty can only be found in death.”

But I wouldn’t let myself be carried away by another one of your melodramas- we’d both seen enough of that. I said: “You must make up a ritual, a single thoughtful act of repetition to help you keep loneliness at bay, to save your mind from the embrace of madness.”

And I showed you the starlit sky: “Aren’t the stars and moon beautiful, too?”. “The stars remind me of all the things beyond my reach”, you replied. “The moon is the pill I swallow every night before going to bed, and every morning I wake up emptier.”

I knew, then, that you had to die, for only in death would your
soul find Peace and Serenity; for only then would I be cured from
the futile thirst for Perfection.