I insist the world know how much I loved my Sinclair, this Sinclair, pale and polluted, and big with another’s child, but still yellow-eyed, still sooty-lashed, still bright and golden, still Carmencita, still mine; Changeons de vie, ma Carmen, allons vivre quelque part où nous ne serons jamais séparés; Stars? The wilds of the Outskirts? No matter, even if those eyes of his would fade to myopic fish, and his nipples swell and crack, and his lovely young velvety delicate delta be tainted and torn—even then I would go mad with tenderness at the mere sight of your dear wan face, at the mere sound of your raucous young voice, my Sinclair.