The future of inactivity is here. I want hair not to grow. Side hustle of rage turns to abusement and conciliation when I know arrival will fail. You hear her talking softly, gesticulating like a fire-juggler. Every extremity’s tensions and releases express the words she barely speaks. Cocoons. Tumblers of communication.  Silos of interaction. Happiness intercedes but only as a function. A means to an end where there is no end. The word itself, end, seems more like the precipice, the plank, than the end itself. She seems steely and determined, but all I see is beauty and portent. This is where my release opens. This is where we amaze each other with differences and absurd alignments. Wind it up. Teach it to teeth, to birth. Grow dissatisfied with water and minutes. Demand vodka and hours. Feel gravity necessitate your temperance. Did I say I love her already? I did not, and in that absence I spoke truth. Soon truth will be nothing but absence. Minus. Missing.  Airless columns of space where bodies once obscened. Crass and skillless, in your hunger for 15 minutes you arrive  underscored and hyphenated, sheepishly prolonged beyond your lungs’ capacity to whoosh. Yawns and lactations as company arrives, unbidden, unridden. Tinker with the comforting advices. Rearrange your city as you would a Lego playground, swapping a skyscraper with a barn and a cottage with a bottomless pit. I never understood what anyone did in life, or why they existed. How did anyone get to the spot on which they presently inert? Lives interchangeable, or are they? Steady supply of lives, an endless economy of diurnal consequence and forgotten pee. Serenity boils over, its buttons burst, spontaneously speaking eight  languages at once, all-knowing and absurd but confident and friendly.