This was true love. They had been to a hospital, had their blood screened, pap smears, semen samples, they had done all the tests, and the diagnosis was unanimous. It was clinical true love. The trouble with love this pure is that tolerance develops at a sickening rate. It all starts with eye contact, and steadily moves to touching, hugging, hand holding, kissing. From there to insertion and intercourse, at greater frequencies with smaller intervals in between. But it doesn't stop, and withdrawal gets more worrisome, with cold sweats breaking out from even the slightest lapse in closeness, and panic attacks whenever direct eye contact is lost. The doctors were stumped, and suggested therapy, but the thought of sharing their intimacy with another was unbearable, and mutual jealousy kept the issue from being explored further. Then, as one of the doctors was pondering the problem, the solution presented itself as a pair of conjoined twins walking together in the park. The two lovers agreed it was the only way to achieve a higher level of closeness and so the attachment surgery was performed immediately.
For weeks the two lived with jubilance and complete contentment at their new arrangement.
But then came the cravings to know what the other was dreaming...

Someone told him that life was this train track. Depressingly linear. No room for inconsistency or deviation. A straight ride from two points. In disagreement he split the rail in to two, one leading east and the other west, and as the train came to the intersection, it derailed and ran itself off a cliff, effectively ending the metaphor.

There is a line of static people waiting at a bus stop. Waiting atop steps, staring into the street. Shifting erratically on the sidewalk, covering their eyes from the sunset. They can see into their apartments, because the side has been sheared off -a gaping freakish hole allowing us to view the interiors that we aren't supposed to- the work of worthless or unlucky construction workers. Either way, probably they're not here right now. Most likely- quiet and stone faced drinking coffee at a diner where the light shines directly down, creating all sorts of depressing shadows under the eyes and exaggerating skin creases. This crowd should look as depressed, but somehow, they're excited. Excitement. Brought right to your doorstep. A slaughter movie, slipped in through the mail slot. A phone call from the mysterious outline of a sexy female. A twice wrapped stick of dynamite, shoved into a rock corner, in a position just effective enough to do more than the job required. The fuse is set, and flint is clicked, and suddenly three dozen people get a fresh out look on life. If only I could have that much of impact. I like diner coffee.