Minimal Awareness, Astute Aim, Channeling Kundera's Wry Commiseration

If every second of our lives recurs an infinite number of times, we are nailed to eternity as Jesus Christ was nailed to the cross. It is a terrifying prospect.-- Milan Kundera, Chapter 2

This is the best image I could find of our flaccid koala in my tinge of remorse. He would never have had the heart to excise me from sustained interaction, as did Maria, in my mere hint of expression as a sexual being, woman unfulfilled, never perceived for herself of what sensual liberation could offer in my bond, and yes, it is painful. Such slight acquaintance as I had with Maria. The Gladhandler was too emasculated, in generational terms, to boast or engage in erect virility, and alas, the dowager doesn't have a gelded eunuch in the life of those persecuted gender non-conformists to ask if this defines what they mean by this new-fangled  coinage of non-binary, but John, being a masculine weather vane of of exquisite simplicity, had smiles and greetings for all.

My Facebook post summarizes the remaining challenge of fleshing out a blank slate, his last attendant one of the most destitute I had ever seen, as the radical left would often spar with me, he derived his self-worth from those rolling congestive marches of clanging titanium wheel rims. I do not, being from the planet Krypton.



There is no further need for pseudonyms, such small delight as may be derived from that. I teased him about forming an insurgent militia to kill you. He took pleasure in my whimsy.