A one-armed man stands across the street, smoking a cigarette and looking at me. I look at him. "How many women have scorned him for his nub?" I ask myself. Nubless, I too have been scorned. Many men out there are simmering in their desire to dump cum in the velvety grip of an intimate embrace.
We are born, we wander about awhile, and we die. Everything is a show. Everything signifies. We love, spurn, ignore, move on. This is our condition.
Habeum papem! But what does it matter? Blood spilled two thousand years ago has since been washed away by as many summers' rains.
How many millenia will pass before we see a generation that will twist swaddling clothes into nooses when it sees the horror confronting it?
When we come into the world, the first sound we make is a scream.
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