Here is the friend that must always argue.
Whatever I say, he must contradict, refine, dissect and doubt.
He takes a great pleasure in owning a few fine things and in being ascetic
(but in his eyes there is a hunger
for something else, an opulence of the soul.)
I am not it, although I stand before him, solid, dependable.
I have no shine, no flecks of gold, no real
pride in my accomplishments, no wit, no grace or height.
I have nothing beautiful to show him, nothing to envy. No great truth to tell him.
He wants only one friend, I am only a subject awaiting a trial.
Although I will miss his passion, I cannot not argue.
He knows what he wants. I am only curious as to my successor,
what test I am continuously failing.