You choose your roles carefully: You dance like lunatics with akathisia upon a protean stage waiting for the velvet curtain to descend & rescue you from further embarrassment.
You are one hundred forty thousand naked souls-- willful slaves to the propagated mass realism. You offer no apologies for your fecundity, but demand forgiveness when the first stones begin to fly.
You delight in your chosen ambiguity & privately weep in the reticent confines of loneliness. Yet, you believe you are not alone, but “god” is seldom found in a crowd when everyone is too busy dancing.
