Every day is an interior drama, but if I distance myself from that drama, will my art die? Will the stage fall away, lights dim, and will no one pay attention? And from whence does this talent to create stage effects come from? On the stage, there are monsters and dummies. Every day, the monsters want me to ventriloquize, and they want me to give life to the puppet that lives inside. By that time, it takes so much strength to wade through the artifice, but when I come in contact with the real, the raw, it feels somehow like sharks having sex in slow motion. Now, the slightest rejection gives way to a wave of abandonment, and that’s when the white-water rapids start coursing. I reach for your hand, but you’re on a raft, already drifting away, with no response. If there’s one thing I cannot stand, it’s emotional distance. Had you accepted my offer, I would have told you that your eyes are crystal chalices, and that they drip a blue glass light, and that you are what my mouth dreams about, if my mouth could dream. I kissed you once. I guess that should suffice.