Instead of the chill of night and darkness, a warm draft lingers and dries the vacant souls who wander aimlessly from hotspot to hotspot. Having a best friend, the one true friend from whom deepest and darkest secrets spring forth to be shared, acknowledged and approved. The uninspired run loose, circumnavigating the hottest spots not unlike an elusive, evasive lover, who by contrast, knows exactly what moves and motivates herm. A debate, the great pronoun debate, simplified into an overwhelming genericism of … uniqueness in order to create sweeping generalizations, distilled, void of all nuance, into a word. The word made viable. The idea extant. It’s cold in here when the air, after a healthy rain, clears of pollution. Cool and crisp, knowable descriptors of a weather pattern so fraught that the reality of its coming begs the question, “When does reality become fantasy?”
When. The time-tellers, the vehemence against everything happening all at once. What. The thing upon which time asserts itself. Why. To know would to be know everything, in a phrase, to be the “I” in “I am.” Who. Anyone with the plausible deniability that all are and therefore, must be … somebody. Where. Within the place that escapes the diatribe of exactness as a state of reference for here, the everywhere against which there is set. How. Through the verb form of the noun, sex—fuck.