Even now I am surprising myself with the amount of times he has surfaced in my writing like a monster beneath the sea, always breaching in different lights and motions and faces, so as to be unrecognizable from earlier sightings. Only his core remains that perhaps only I can recognize, because it is from me. If my whole life is about writing, and I have always been writing with him, then in some small pathetic way, my life is as much about a man as any woman I’ve ever criticized. Even as I type it, I know there are differences. And Kitty is screaming at me that it doesn’t matter, everyone has a god whose hunger will never be satiated with any given sacrifice, accept that you will forever be his vestal virgin and to betray him is to be buried alive.