From where I stand, everything is bright and transient. Words and music spiral thickly down behind my eyes, corkscrewing soft and relentless towards flickering uniformity. Five hundred artists sing their muted souls out and the static, thick and sweet, pours and swirls down, down, down through me. Too many gestures for me to name, the beckonings, usherings, summonings of a hundred thousand Sirens, shift and glimmer behind my eyes. And behind everything, like a dark form moving, the desire to lay his head on my breasts, feel his hands link around my waist, and lie there. Just lie.
Enough with this urbane, melodic solitude! A thousand pop-songs’ worth of lo-fi, assonant loneliness; pinlights; grey cities. Instead, instead, I want an eclogue!—
Make me a cherry-cheeked shepherdess, my full form swelling in gingham, a flutter of grass-damp hands and dirt on my hems. And in the barn, while half of creation lows and caterwauls, something straining and finite, his tow-head of hair spilling roughly over mine. The idea of this—very remote: a shepherdess: absurd! But anything is better than 3 a. m. aloneness, the swell in the throat, the desperate text-messages. There is nothing noble in bleached-out skin, the opening and closing of lights, luminous and inconstant as the blinking eyes of frogs; in the endless numbers of us, feeling an inexplicable paucity of something in ourselves -- the edge of us dulled by all our replicated sensations.
Give me, then, my gap-toothed shepherd! Green slopes, milling white shapes like the teeth from a thousand jaws, browsing and chewing... laxity; empty space; and the constant spiral ceases. I look at the one I love and at myself, crooks propped in our hands, like a couple of dolls—ridiculous. But the wind whips at our hands, feet, faces, its thin screech erasing, erasing, erasing, until I shuck my flickering cocoon: until I have severed myself from the millions of lonely people moving from room to room in the darkness, far from the stars. And it's you I love, with your broad, round, wind-chapped shoulders, and your big white arms. And the wind in the sour first grass.