"The Lonesome Crowded West"

Dreams about watching desert epics on television. Like the last thing I'd ever do is parachute into some Faustian existence out in the scrape and the dust and the blanched white bones. Not for immortality or atavism, mind you, merely for survival so I can drag my paralyzed legs back to the prison ship.

Sex=guilt. Ostensible participation in some hoax, or the tenderest of manipulations. I want; theirs is something different. The word itself a reptilian indictment, the act blatantly temporary. And yet hinting at the infinite.

You would martyr yourself for your cause if you really cared. Or perhaps we're just waiting for our opportunity in the fragments and foam rubber and medication.