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Cynicism save me. Turn me around and march me back up the sidewalk to my door, take me back inside and throw my trenchcoat on the floor, lead me back to my bedroom and make me put my clothes on. Lock me in the closet and read me stories about curious cats and little runaway girls snatched up from dark alleys by the flaccid fingers of anti-climax. Get the Mag-Lite, get the grappling hook. Let's find the bottom of this cave and then let's seal it up and build a Circle K over it.

The salt on my lips is an enzyme that metabolizes reality to fuel dirty delusions. The warm skin pushing its way through my fingers is magnetic, but it's just a side effect of the invisibility serum. The organs exploding in my torso like a series of city blocks succumbing to a nuclear blast? The pressure relief valve activated by too much holding my breath.

I'll prove it. Come sit next to me. Tell me what you do at work; from now on when I touch you I'll feel cartoon flesh. Tell me your sister's name and I can kiss you. We'll be like gay actors. And if I knew your name we could be having the kind of sex sacrificial virgins imagine, but if I knew your name it would have to be for charity. Try me. Test me. Release me.

Cynicism reassure me that, if we only had less clothing and better light, it would all be just an embarassing misunderstanding. The sudden silences aren't the crash where lips should be. If it were a contract I would not sign. If it were a noose I would not jump. Let me believe it looks better in trompe l'oeil. Promise me disappointment so I can stop holding out for glory.

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