I wine myself till tongue can’t tell teeth apart. But even if we drink, I don’t think we’ll kiss from the way I talk myself past this, as if I’m chained to the floor of consequence and cowardice, and the need to preserve this. Just: this. Because it’s easier than the uncertainty of the reaction of a separate, independent entity. Then I have nothing to say, and nothing left to do, but to pull another rabbit from a false-bottomed hat, call it a cat just for the hell of it, and go home empty of novelty and experience, but safe and stolid in my little performance.