I’ll cook tilapia for dinner; use the trip to the grocery as an excuse for a bottle of Pinot. Fill the kitchen with Depeche Mode, and sautéed onions. Then gaze into some man’s forehead and say, “Really? It’s this damn phone. I never get a good connection.” Well, I’m sorry for my serotonin. But if you don’t like sex and secrets; white wine, Percocet, and the most hurtful words; me curled naked into a plastic blue chair and rather happy—please go away. I’m too old to play much older. Too young to gather with others, in yellow closets. And often, very often, I will not reply. There is a steady wind that blows right through me. Lightning bolts down my throat. My life is cloudy, and perfectly lit with the taste of dusk. “What do you mean?” they ask. “What do you mean?” Hours ago, I penned a Patagonia. Wandered a sidewalk of whiskey drinkers. Met a woman who told a wonderful story for every inch of her body. Went to my mailbox, and saw grappling in coils, a snake swallowing a snake. Really. That’s what I mean, tonight.