Whispering, or Wasting My Breath?

If people bring so much courage to this world, the world has to kill them to break them, so of course it kills them. The world breaks everyone, and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break, it kills. It kills the very good, and the very gentle, and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too, but there will be no special hurry.

~Ernest Hemingway.

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Say, how'd you sneak on in here without me noticing? Is my hearing so poorly that you walked right in without me noticing? Or are you some kind of sleuth, with padded feet and a non-sniffable scent? You know I can smell a person from a distance, so it must be the former. And I do have selective hearing. That is something I can't refute. But forget it, I'm not angry. You might even say I'm glad you came. Say, blue-jay, how'd you like to dance?

Since we're hand-to-hip on this slicked up dance-floor, shouldn't we discuss some things? The world, maybe? Or something less taxing, like how nice your hair looks? I'm unsure how to speak when we're this close together. I get so damned nervous. But goddamn, you smell good. Like some perfect flower whose pollen is in my blood. Like I'm floating on a cloud of your scent. And under this disco-ball and these brightly coloured lights, I feel a little dizzy. But I'll shuffle my feet, swing my hips, smile my most handsome smile. I'll hope that when our eyes meet, you don't take my breath completely away. I'll pass out for sure.

And Jesus, you perfect little picture, you're painting me a thousand words and more. You're awakening the deserted parts of me. The neglected little niches that I thought were taken into foster care by some, more benign caretaker. Hose me down, I'm just getting heated up. So, where did you get your dress? It looks expensive, but that's beside the point. The beauty is in the way it shimmers, changes colours as you move. I watched you at the punch-bowl, and I watched the eyes of the other boys as they followed your movements. I guess you could say I feel a little smug that you sat down next to me, or that it is my neck you're breathing perfect breath onto. But it is more bewilderment. If I could match your perfection with a semblance of suave, a smidgen of sophistication, this night would be a culmination of everything that is agreeable in the world.

And perhaps, if my dancing were a little less jerky, a little more fluid, you'd fall in love tonight. If not with me, then at least with the idea of it all. For is that not the whole point? To make your heart melt for some reason, any reason, even if it isn't the idea of me alone? Nothing is more underwhelming than a night spent in the company of perfection, when at the end she goes home happy to be doing so. Or maybe I'm just aiming for too much. Your company alone would be enough, if not for the slither of greed that runs through my veins. If I were less of a dreamer, less of a romantic at heart, I'd understand the ways to make you happy. But that isn't me. I'm the clueless one who thinks he knows best. Don't grow tired of it, I ask you, because I am trying. I am giving it my best shot. When it comes to the crunch, could you ask for anything more?

Who is your favourite sculptor?