A Little Profile
Every woman wants to be worshiped. And every man seeks idols of uncalming affection. These forces are not true of every individual, certainly not in their consciousness, but seething in their genes. Men, women, false idols of popular religions. People are programs of affection. We just browse the code and watch the machines play their parts. She, was she? Or was he? Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine. Which movie? So many questions. What is love? How do you know when you feel it? Are we miming, or is this real? Do we get to decide? Fresh faced. A morsel of flesh, dangling in front of the CCTV. A mindful of madness, and heartful of joy, do you, she asked, know what any of it means? And we rode long into the openness, naked before the teaming dramaturges and ogling spies, as we studied the fashions of our peers. On guard, an untrustable being! Excuses, she vanishes into spaces we already agreed not to go to. Awks.