She takes a grape and makes it disappear. I carve a replica of Cleopatra’s Needle and watch as it goes in and out. And that’s what it does, hour after hour as I crouch at the end of the bed laughing with infant glee as she flowers on the brink of euphoria. In and out. Out and in. There’s a crow that sits perched atop a gravestone that keeps looking at me whenever I walk past on my way home from work. Maybe it’s just nature, or perhaps an omen. The year nears its end, and the more I look, the more I see. There are broken souls that reach out and empty souls that grow and consume like a disease. Under the influence, we stalk the streets and suck dead air as if it were impossible to do anything else. We dance and divide and kiss, and although there is no final solution, we do it because it takes us away from that which reminds us of who we used to be. Like I said, different versions. Different women. The moon, how it brings out the contours of her sacred face. That chin, those eyes. Those curls of hair that float on damp bedsheets as fairies skip this way and that in the garden as the rest of her generation fuck themselves silly at the horror of their own diminishing sense of self. I myself have no generation. Have never felt the need for one. White teeth. Red hair. Brunette. Too many books unread, and too many faces searched in need for someone who sees what you feel inside. There are demons, and there are tigers. There are bubbles of thought that resemble the bubbles of fluid that foam at the corners of her mouth that drip drip drip to the carpet at her knees. We are lovers, are we not? Bodies in flight that rage despite what we know awaits us.