complete recline

I've never been one to mince words when it comes to playthings. But when it comes to playthings, outside is the best. One of our windows looks onto an extended ledge, and the girls and I have taken to enjoying the breeze of Bed-Stuy bloom. Yet there is something forbidden about this ledge beyond my glass gate. I mean, the very fact that its beyond a fucking glass gate! Sets me on edge. And whenever we explore I'm never really free. I can enjoy the wind coursing through my follicles; I can feel the liberty, but these perceptions offer only a virtual reality. The moment I explore the depths at the bottom of the slatted hill they pounce. I step outside of their little "allowances" -- what they tell me I can do, who they tell me I can be -- and zzhtzhtzzz behavioral correction. Their power is really quite autocratic. A bit too 19th century for my tastes.

But playthings. Outside. Yes, the natural habitat. There are other juttings into the outside world, but not too many people sitting on them. Mostly you can see them floating behind the spyholes, in their apartments stacked up like drawers.

This is the only place I'm alive. They brought in some endlessly whirring fans, but inside all I can do is melt, my molecules expanding and repelling with heat energy. I cannot be concerned with my more lofty worries of person and nation, my only goal can be: have no one part touch another.