Not fuck, I want to be you, and maybe a little fuck. My clothes don’t fit like yours do, and in ten years I won’t look how I did twenty ago and my ex-wife fucks and my kids say, “Hi,” on Skype and, in life, don’t know what to say to me. I am an orangutan ray, a staple diet, Catherine Zeta Jones in that dress, with that man, at that thing. I am the eye skin sliver in the burn bag at the clinic and the sack fat and peel and week old cotton stack recycled at price on eBay. I am everything you’ll never have, be, suck or see except at the movies and even then the degree of airbrushing, light effect lie is a tropical anaesthetic, a stone at the drum of your ear; Woody Allen in 5054.