A silver cap worn not so recently by all sorts of kings and queens decorates their parlor and observes as testament to their impatience. Looked upon by some black garmented fool who plays at fuck and waits. The floor is mother of pearl and the furniture is made of glass; so delicate one would not sit on it. The ticking sounds of slow decay unsettle and echo and build one to anger. So mild is the air here, one has already forgotten it and breathes in silence. Over a great deal of time dust collects in the nostrils and hardens to clay. One picks, and imagines tweezers to grasp the tiny, sticking-up end with in order to peel it all back in one great corkscrew strip down the throat, past the esophagus, all the way to the anus. One giant booger, made of man's insides. What would that be like?
One thinks, and is distracted. One is so only because of them. But I am I. So really it's we, right? One eats sushi and thinks of us. We shit. We scratch between our legs. And we drive cars. All the while doing nothing, elsewhere, that deep void of absorption and concern, wherein dwells us, even to begin with.
What is our problem? Caught within an eggshell with a tiny paintbrush and incredibly amused. Meanwhile the birth we never asked for and they death always about to happen stand as bookends and mock the pathetic, but deeply, deeply beautiful attempts we make to grasp it all, even if all of it is only just a tiny part.
The revolving doors were there and then gone. You hardly noticed it because you were thinking about the affair. Those legs and that ass, so firm, so unlike your wife's. And she wants your money! Ha! At least it'll never get old.