November 13, 2016
Dusk is falling. The ratings have risen. Praise God! In the round I'm found as a face looking for its expression. You can find me again when the race has settled into its inevitability, when the comfort zone has expanded to include all the things you were denied in the time of your parents' fears, screaming down the Christmas alleyway where the cats were blinded by ecstasy only a genuine sadist might appreciate. Am I found again? You say this could be a relief, but it isn't. I don't want to be found. Being found is being labeled, being dead.