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.