Men are simple
creatures, a bit like lumps of clay,
raw, unformed, simple. Not so smooth,
nor so grey; indeed, they are jagged,
and every crevice is a lack
of something. Every lump
is a good intention. Drop a man,
nay, hurl him off a cliff
with all your might, and he will land
with a quiet, simple noise.

And easy to please; less like a woman's
lute strings and frets, more like a drum.
Beat it long enough and--anyway,
men are built for abuse.

Like I said, when you drop a man,
he lands heavily and quietly, and he does
not change his shape that much. He cannot
be refined like the delicate silk of a woman.
At best, he can be shaped by the proper
woman with the proper hand. And then,
even then, he will not be grateful, because
he refuses to see what that angel
in the attic has done. Has she not
made him better? Her judgement is of course
unquestionable. His new shape
cannot be worse than before,
nor can he be any worse for wear.

That's why men can be left
behind like ancient toys, like glass bottles,
anything old. They are made to handle
her caprices. They know to be grateful when
she returns. It's not because love-fire
never burns out in men. They can't
feel that to begin with, for fire would bake
them solid and hard, useless. Then their women
would have nothing to fix, nothing
to deal with in a single day.

Can you ever see the inside of clay?

Penned by my hand on the 24th of Chronos, in the year 324 AF.