Feeble curiosity cannot justify my astonishment when a smoking woman on the bench outside a grocery confessed the gravity of my movement, exhaling poison and sugar in a sentence. I took the bitter with the strange, tasted a lip and apologized for her bleary judgment before leaving her scattered in the pull beyond explanation.
I want to exchange seconds for years, be more physically aged to regard young people with awe instead of desperation. Their hundred shiny faces, restless and unwearied, create conflict with the preternatural wisdom of a spider that feeds upon its enthusiastic mate. (I await the approval that I am also suitable for consumption.)
To gamble fancy is to form the unwitting progeny of instinct, conscious decision a slave satellite to the boundless breadth from axon to dendrite, altercations between chemical pulses exchanged for a compliment delivered by a blind woman who rests her palm flush on the unthinkable myelin stains she almost avoided on the woodplanked bench.