the lost man chronicles
book two: the art of love
all these lingering sighs we are exchanging are rearranging my priorities, so that all i do is pretend—that i am working. but then that would be shirking my obligations, the duties which i am paid to do, wouldn't it? yet, somehow despite my conscience-that-is-prodding, i find myself allotting more and more time to you, to us, to all that we construe as worthwhile and meaningful.
meanwhile, those tedious office chores still go ignored, perhaps because, quite frankly, i am bored, and find our mutual exploration so much more exciting, definitely and absolutely-absolutely more inviting, as well as worthy of biding me through this ennui.
so tell me, why are you here? why do you dare endear me with a droll word or two, an arcane phrase with which you have me wondering and thundering my pining words about you? why would you too risk a minute spent with me, when there is no guarantee that you will ever see, touch, taste or feel this lost man who writes from afar? do tell me, please, and do not tease me with those trite platitudes that all the others we wish would disappear, so readily allow themselves to exude from their bromidic bungs. say something fun! something that you yourself for one might find inexorably enchanting, anything please but the standard prosaic flatulence about how humdrum and vapid you and your dreary life go.
oh no! but i know this cannot apply to you, i know that you are much more stirring too than that. so supergirl, be phat! and arouse me if you will with the agile trill of your thoughts, with the stories of how you untie knots with your tongue, and how you for one, you would not hesitate to lie if you believed the bent-truth could successfully amuse me. for sometimes it pays to be bold, if one can swoon, enrapture, enfold, or magically convince me to pursue and that tale of yours that you wag so wantonly to allure me.
the art of living the list