When the day’s all done, you’re still and always alone;
the only question is to what extent and by what design. Is it of your own making or a death sentence? Little by little you build your empires one brick at the time, wall by wall, room by room, just to watch it all fall down in one broad sweep of the cosmic broom. If you don’t tear it down yourself, then someone will do it for you. Love is scary, staring into the great unknown, big brown eyes connected to infinity. It’s that falling feeling that I crave, that bottomless pit in the stomach, that sudden drop on the roller-coaster ride of life, that lack of center, that makes me feel most alive. Machines and their machinations only delay the inevitable. Space is comprised of singularities, impure and infinitely dividable, recombining at random with anonymous partners. Still mechanical sex is only as good as the mechanics behind it, and nothing compares with that tractor beam of pure attraction between two would-be lovers making the leap from conditional tense to indicative. That’s the force that maintains the race, to reproduce and evolve, by bits and pieces, little ones crawling underfoot and reeking.