Still —– seems the focal point of my life. My mental life, my emotional life, even though we are not together. I still orbit around her star, a distant orbit, but quite happily so. I cannot give her what she needs, and cannot be the man she wants—any man who can be the man his woman wants is not really a man, surely. Less than a man. A castrated man. An emasculated man. The type of man who is taking over Europe, at least, unfortunately. “Snowflake” man, if I have understood the meaning of this phrase correctly. 120. Any man who can be the man his woman wants him to be is a man who I instinctively, perhaps stupidly, lack respect for. A nice man, for sure. And I envy him his happiness and his contentment to be with the woman he so patently loves. Yet nice, it can never be me. Never.