I'm jealous. In a "The End of the Affair" kind of way.

I'm jealous of everything that surrounds you. I'm jealous of your clothes as they get to rub against your skin the entire day.  I'm jealous of your fork as it gets to be in your mouth. I'm jealous of your bed, your pillows, and all the people around you. I'm jealous of your soap, your lactacyd, and even your own hands as they get to wash what I cannot even smell.  I'm jealous of your beer bottle, the water down your throat, the words that come out of your mouth. I'm jealous of whoever's eyes you're looking at when you speak.

The beginnings of overpossessiveness? I think not.  I'm jealous of all these things: objects, words, beings; because they can get close to you and I can't -- when I'm the only one who can get the closest, make you the happiest, make you ache cry bleed laugh smile hurt wither live die move be still be mine be here be near.

:::::::eyes welling up:::::::

Maurice Bendrix (Ralph Feinnes) was typing on an old pica machine in the beginning of that movie. "This is a story of hate," he wrote.

Mine is a story of wanting. And pain.