November 20, 2020:

"Is there more about me?"

Yes, no, I don't know. If there is, there's little reason it would be appropriate to share.

The stencil is now hindsightfully obvious, where this experience, like a previous and vastly more painful re-uniting a decade earlier — the first tragedy, the second, farce — resolves a lingering mystery. The pattern is narcissism. Extreme, morbid, destructive. Narcissistic Personality Disorder, an uncompromisingly ubiquitous self-regard, where the focus of her mind's eye is frozen, or atrophied, from permanent lack of attention to outside objects, and the world in its totality exists solely as mirror.

"Is there more about me?" She wants me to read to her, about her, from a very old journal.

Yes, no, I don't know. It doesn't matter. I've finally made a necessary decision. At long last based on clarity.