But if Echo was no longer a projection, she was still a reflection. Echo, like all women, offered her man a peek inside his soul, all he had to do look: What kind of a man am I, that attracts this kind of woman? What kind of a man am I that attracts the kind of woman who only likes me for how I look? Despite how I treat her? What kind of a man am I that only attracts the kind of women who like me for X? Is it because there is nothing else of value inside me except X? But he was never taught to ask questions like this. In fact, he was taught never to ask questions like that. What kind of a man attracts a woman who can only echo him? There must be a name for that kind of person, and he already had it.
via The Last Psychiatrist: The Second Story Of Echo And Narcissus.
TransMillennium 