It is still night in Cape Town. The kind when one cannot imagine its terrible winds, its past pains, when everything feels new, just-born, a history made up of stories, gentle and good.

I let you plead with me for reasons that were corrupt, because of thoughts that arrived fully formed, too well dressed to be honest.

Professional men and women have their own parallel dark night. They may spend their days and hours making a living, keeping the needs of their family in mind. Then they, too, find that this is simply not enough to make their lives worth living. They, too, have to discover a deeper dimension, their own underworld. Unfortunately, they may collapse into alcohol, affairs, or excessive work—underworlds that are too literal and concrete. Instead of completing the myth by finding first the void and then some purpose in themselves, they fall into various symptomatic states that disrupt their lives.

We have to love our own complexities and contradictions, encouraging an interior marriage and eroticism of the soul.

The night was clear and still; the reflection of the stars began to settle into the water; it was as if we were floating in the sky.