I have neither now nor have I ever had an existence comfortable enough to still be capable of falling in love.

 I have neither now nor have I ever had an existence comfortable enough to still be capable of falling in love. I am neither naive nor unscarred enough to be passionately attached to anyone. If someone wished to hug me—let us say they did—rather than feeling anything pleasant, I would ask, with full seriousness, “Why? When you were absent, I learned to live without you, and now you stand before me, asking me to destroy that with a hug?” I can feel affection for things—and I do—because to me, they are the ones that are metaphysically alive. To feel deep love for beings who are physically alive—that is, for people—feels like insulting myself by lowering myself to their level. I love not “who,” but “what,” by which I mean an intellectual love. I do not find emotional love frightening, only ironic—like a child’s game. Simply... “funny.” After all, a god—perfect and complete—does not, and cannot, fall in love, for love requires vulnerability and deficiency.