Looking through photos of young men with soulful eyes makes me wonder what it is I’m searching for or, more appropriately, what it is I’m afraid to find. When I sleep at night, I find myself staring at a still picture projected on the undersides of my eyelids. My nerves convince me that there’s someone lying behind me, curled to my form, knees tucked behind my knees.
Damn this rush of strange emotion! This must be an allergic reaction.
