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The terror of love is its narcissism. The separation that can never be breached. Speaking, we hear only ourselves, address ourselves. The joys and agonies are our own. They are scarcely shared. As if the weight of narcissism was such that imagining another becomes almost impossible. But alongside this, there is the lateral motion of alterity. Alterity the mirror shatterer. The support of our narcissism is another that forever escapes comprehension. But in moments of pleading, fighting, overflowing, limitlessness, confusion, we see ourselves as dyadic. I is forever an other. Narcissus, gazing in the lake, falls in love not because he thinks he sees himself, but because he sees the untouchable face of another being no different than himself.