No sir, you old dog! The bruise that grows below the surface 
of my neck is not a mark of passion, the aftermath of an 
erotic encounter. The bite of love keeps its flesh piercing fangs, 
its tremulous pangs well away from here. I can assure you…

No madam, you old prune! I am not dressed to impress with 
this ratty old suit jacket of mine. An upper torso covered in 
the stray hair of a china white puss surely says otherwise. 
A losing battle I tossed my white rag at years ago which now 
like a blanket of fresh snow covers every piece of clothing 
I own. Who would I possibly need to sharpen my look for other 
than myself? Certainly not the unoccupied chair which sits 
silently beside me inside a crowded movie theater. I could only 
dream that my reality sparked a simple pleasure as minuscule 
and divine as a soft hand brushing up against mine.

But this is simply not the case, and it would not be incorrect to 
say that I am the reluctant artist who designed it this way. 
As I’m well aware that when a sleepless night much like this one 
comes to pass, as the great pining slowly subsides before this 
burning desire for my absent lover who I cannot place neither 
name nor face ceases to be. It will remain as clear as a new day
that the freedom I seek only exists in bittersweet solitude. 
A knowing that to be truly free is a freedom that can only exist 
and be found in some undiscovered ground deep within me.

lucas