Love, the ecstasy that slips through the sieve of a thousand tragedies, the inviolable allure of someone else’s personal gravity.

they say that time changes things, but it doesn’t. things change, but that has nothing to do with time. time is a series of inconsolable, incontrovertible events that can never be changed, never be lessened. time is that series of concrete weariness, the art that we make.

serret’s always said never settle for anything less than extraordinary, and you shouldn’t. it is, after all, your art.

in alabama, we watched a redneck with a trucker cap and kicker boots walk into a convenience store wearing a confederate flag as a cape.

For as long as I can remember, I have lived as an alien among you, an outsider, a stranger, every human condition a strange land. And I am not just an outsider living among you, I’m an outsider in my own body, disconnected, buried in this meat. I don’t know who I am or where I come from other than I am not from here and I am not me. I never have been.

I’ve spent my life watching you, amazed and baffled by your human condition. Nothing you say or think or do ever makes any sense. Your humanness is impenetrable to me, like these eyes let me see beyond my own skin, and into your world, but I can’t feel the breeze there, smell the smells. Your touch is like a hand on my shoulder in the winter, an echo of pressure through a wool coat.

Love has never been any different. Many might describe the sensation as being connected. But for me, it’s more like being protected. When I’m in love, I’m finally free. I can shed my skin and retreat to my bubble, some place not here, where I’m not an alien, some place natural, devoid of all this human meat. I can wrap myself in me, separate and protected. For me, love and passion — be they for people or things — tear open my skull and set me free.

Laughter does the same.

If you ever wonder why I do the things I do, what I’m thinking when I see you, or why I might seem distant or distracted… this is why. I don’t know where I’ve come from or why. As impenetrable as you creatures are, I have enjoyed the ride. It’s definitely been interesting, and I rise every day curious to see where you’ll take me next.

There’s something odd about having someone, half-naked, draped in your arms talk fondly about their boyfriend. I’m not sure he’d mind. He called it compersion.

I call it lovers’ position #42.

The man and the woman lay on their backs, side-by-side. The woman takes her arm nearest the man and lays it over his chest. Bending at the elbow, she raises her hand to play with the hair just above the man’s ear.

This is what she did now: something only lovers have ever done. But her touch was comfortable, so possessed of a sense of habit, I momentarily forgot who I was. Closing my drowsy lids I remembered our courtship, her wide smile and impish grin, sparkling eyes, those first passionate kisses, our first intimacies.

In truth, this was the first night we had hung out. We’d seen eachother before. Her drunken habit of trying to make out with me, despite the close proximity of her enabling boyfriend endeared her, somewhat, though others might argue her youth endeared her more.

I picked her up from work, dragged her to a friend’s party, and made sure she had a good time. I hadn’t seen her out in a bit, so I felt I was merely being polite and social.

Prophets will record the need to be polite signals a hidden horribleness that guilty consciences work overtly to hide.

The first, misfired salvo was mine. I slapped her on the ass as she wandered by to grab a drink. This is quite unlike me; quite impolite. She didn’t bring it up until later, and even then, she didn’t mind. A few stolen kisses, drunkenly shared life-stories (though I never share mine), and an after-party-gathering, and then we were mugging in a spare bedroom on a friends air-mattress.

His last words to me? “Bed her. Just bed her,” but we didn’t have sex.

That makes at least four willing women whose beds I’ve climbed out of in the past year or two. Not that I climbed out. A gentlemen never just climbs out.

I’ve perfected a certain skill at rebuffing a woman’s sexual advances while still making her feel special, cared for, and beautiful. The downside, the next day they still call you.

Of course, if I felt like being obligated to talk to them the next day, I would have fucked them. To not call the next day would have been… impolite.