If I changed just a little, nothing else would change at all.
You, of course, would say it would.
So let’s take this step by step.
If I found another lover, and let’s suppose this might be possible, even where objectively improbable, still nothing real in my existence would truly ever get better.
For one thing, whenever I walked the streets hand in hand with her, there you would be, so clear and close up near, watching us and eavesdropping us and listening in crudely, via mobile phone and CCTV, and God knows what else inventive technology.
For another thing, the total surveillance you now claim you possess would interfere and intervene in even our most intimate caress.
This I was able to see and sense and perceive thirteen years ago with her mother. How easier now, then, when practically every soul on the planet has become a surveiller.
I could never settle down to a private sense of love, where it’d be just her and me in joyous singularity. You’d always be present in some way or other: always registering our moans; our beautiful pleasure; our every beloved measure.
So don’t tell me now it’s the right time to change, because never will you absent yourself from the privacy and intimacy you much prefer to disturb.
Instead, just remember how long I have suffered at the hands of your revolving, disgraceful and immoral surveillance. And don’t forget this one certain thing you made of me and my last fourteen years: what I have undergone in the time you have surveilled me is nothing to what you will have to follow on.