JIM: Welcome back to the Caucasus Mountains. We’re in the midst of an absolutely brutal late-season stretch here, and Tony, the big story today isn’t the chains—it’s the recovery time.

TONY: It’s all about the liver, Jim.

JIM: All about the liver.

TONY: We talk about “workhorse” athletes, but what Prometheus is doing out here… well, it straight up defies the traditional anatomy of the game. Let’s look at the Regeneration Feed, brought to you by Gatorade.

RECOVERY TRACKER

Current Liver Mass: 12% (Critical)

Regrowth Velocity: 4.2 lbs / hr

Eagles in Area: 1 (Active)

Minutes Since Last Laceration: 3.3

JIM: Look at those regrowth numbers, Tony. That’s elite-level cellular turnover.

TONY: Unprecedented. Early in his career, he was struggling with the overnight cycle. He’d come into the morning session at maybe 80, 85 percent. Now? He’s hitting 100% capacity by dawn. Every. Single. Day.

JIM: Every single day, Tony. A testament to his off-field discipline.

TONY: Exactly. And speaking of the field—here comes the eagle now.

JIM: And there’s the whistle!

TONY: Oh! Total commitment from the bird there—right for the midsection! You see Prometheus—look at the core strength, Jim—he’s staying pinned to the rock, taking the hits, absorbing the contact. That’s lunch pail football right there.

JIM: He’s a blue-collar guy, Tony, through and through. He doesn’t complain to the refs. Doesn’t ask for a trade. He just shows up and gives his internal organs to the game.

TONY: And you have to wonder, Jim, at what point does Zeus look at this and say,
“Maybe he’s too tough for this league?”

JIM: Well, the Commissioner has been quiet on that front. But let’s go down to the sideline where Erin is standing by with the Eagle’s Head Coach.

ERIN: Thanks, Jim. Coach, you’ve had success in the first half, but Prometheus seems to be regenerating faster than your offense can dismantle him. What’s the adjustment for the afternoon session?

COACH: CAWWWW! CAW! CAW!

ERIN: Back to you, Jim.

JIM: Insightful stuff. Always a tough interview, that bird.

TONY: A defensive-minded coach, Jim. Doesn’t like to give away the game plan.

JIM: He sure doesn’t. Now, looking at the long-term outlook, we’ve got some what-if scenarios to chew on. If Heracles enters the portal and joins the roster next week, does that change the landscape of the Caucasus?

TONY: Total game-changer, Jim. You’re talking about a guy who can literally break the chains of the game. But until that trade goes through, Prometheus is the lone star. He’s the centerpiece.

JIM: He’s the centerpiece, Tony.

TONY: Literally.

JIM: Let’s check out the State Farm Total Loss Replay. Watch how the beak enters the right lobe here…

TONY: Clean entry. No flags.

JIM: No flags at all. Just pure, regulation incisions.

TONY: And the fans can’t get enough of it. Stay right there—we’ll be right back after this message from our sponsors.

COMMERCIAL BREAK

[OPENING SCENE: A clean, white room. Untouched by the habits of any occupant. As if willed into existence the very moment it was needed. A man in compression sleeves sits upright on the edge of a perfectly ruffled bed, smiling with the exhausted dignity of someone who has recently been approved by insurance.]

VOICEOVER (Velvety, punitive, reimbursable):
You gave everything today. Didn’t you?

[CUT TO: A football player on a sideline bench. His helmet is off. His eyes are unfocused; one of them drifts towards his temple, then quickly rights itself. A trainer holds up three fingers. The player smiles and says, “Tuesday.” Everyone laughs (off-screen).]

VOICEOVER:
Your body knows sacrifice. Your workplace knows sacrifice. Your family respects the sacrifice from a reasonable distance.

[CUT TO: A woman limping on a treadmill in an office gym. Her left leg appears to be regrowing from the knee downward. A tablet mounted to the treadmill flashes:

PRODUCTIVITY RECOVERED: 68%

The leg keeps growing until it is fully present--it is hairy and swollen. She is jogging now. The foot is naked and horribly misshapen, the toes twisted at severe angles, the nails coated in black-and-green goo. She runs anyway, breathless.]

VOICEOVER:
At REGENIX™ Recovery Systems, we don’t ask how bad it hurts.

[CUT TO: A warehouse employee lying calmly inside a transparent tube. Infrared light passes over his burnt, irradiated body in slow, moaning bands. On a screen beside the tube:

ESTIMATED RETURN TO FUNCTION: 00:13:44]

VOICEOVER:
We ask how bad you want to get back in the game.

[CUT TO: A family dinner. A father sits at the table in a branded recovery vest. His daughter reaches for his bandaged hand. A soft alarm chimes from his chest.]

RECOVERY VEST:
Warning, warning--contact exceeds recommended tenderness threshold.

[The daughter withdraws her hand. The family continues eating.]

VOICEOVER:
With our patented SufferCycle™ technology, REGENIX™ helps high-output bodies rebuild, recalibrate, and return to duty faster than ever before.

[CUT TO: An animated liver smiling while clocking in at a tiny factory. It punches a timecard. The timecard gushes a spurt of blood and whimpers a prayer.]

VOICEOVER:
Liver. Tendon. Lungs. Ego. Hope. You bring the hole, we fill it in.

[CUT TO: A man standing in front of a mirror. He removes his shirt. There is a fresh surgical seam across his abdomen, caked in crusty, yellowish pus. He beams and gives two thumbs up. Behind him, in the reflection, a tall, veiled thing is sharpening a beak.]

VOICEOVER:
Because pain is temporary.

[A pause. The faint sound of birds.]

VOICEOVER:
But obligations are forever.

[CUT TO: A bright corporate campus at sunrise. Employees jog in slow motion past banners reading: RESILIENCE IS A RENEWABLE RESOURCE and HEALING IS HOW WE SCALE.]

VOICEOVER:
Ask your employer, insurer, athletic director, deity, or regional punishment administrator whether REGENIX™ is right for you.

[LEGAL DISCLAIMER scrolls too fast to read.]

VOICEOVER:
Side effects may include inflammation, compliance, prophetic irritability, repeated dawn, organ loyalty, spiritual chafing, and the inexplicable sensation that your recovery is a curse.

[CUT BACK TO: The smiling animated liver. It is now wearing a hard hat. A whistle blows. It sighs, picks up a lunch pail, and struts out the exit and back inside the body.]

VOICEOVER:
REGENIX™ Recovery Systems.

SUPER: TOMORROW’S EXPECTING YOU.

VOICEOVER (quickly):
Now with 40% more perpetuity.

TONY: And we’re back here in the Caucasus, Jim, where Prometheus continues to put up historic recovery numbers despite what can only be described as aggressive midsection pressure.

JIM: Tony, if you’re just joining us, the morning session was all eagle, but Prometheus has answered every single possession with elite tissue response.

TONY: That’s right, Jim. And let’s look at the updated Regeneration Feed.

RECOVERY TRACKER — SECOND HALF

Current Liver Mass: 91%

Projected Dawn Capacity: 100%

Eagles in Area: 1

Chain Integrity: Stable

Liberation Rumors: Increasing

Zeus Approval Rating: Protected by Cloud Cover

JIM: Those last two numbers are interesting.

TONY: They are, Jim. Because they’re not helping extinguish the Heracles rumors.

JIM: A lot of fans hear “Heracles” and think immediate impact.

TONY: Big body. Great hands. Excellent club speed. But the question is fit.

JIM: Fit matters.

TONY: It absolutely does. You bring in a guy like that, sure, he can break the chains. He can fill the eagle with arrows. He can change the entire complexion of the mountain. But then what?

JIM: Then Prometheus is free.

TONY: Right. And from a human standpoint, beautiful story. Tremendous story. Inspirational. You’d watch that documentary.

JIM: With a box of tissues.

TONY: But from a programming standpoint?

JIM: There are concerns.

TONY: Big concerns.

JIM: If he does arrive, if he breaks the chains, if this whole thing ends—what happens next?

TONY: Jim, that’s a question a lot of people in the league office are asking. Because you don’t just replace this kind of content overnight.

JIM: No.

TONY: There are sponsorships. Broadcast windows. Recovery partners. Eagle development programs. Local vendors.

JIM: The ecosystem.

TONY: Exactly. You remove Prometheus, and suddenly the whole mountain has to ask itself what it is without him.

JIM: And what is it?

TONY: Off-season programming.

JIM: That’s bleak.

TONY: That’s television. Let’s bring in rules analyst Gene Steratore. Gene, if Heracles enters the field of play and removes Prometheus from the rock, are we looking at a legal rescue?

GENE: Thanks, Tony. Under the current Collective Punishment Agreement, Heracles would be permitted to intervene if, and only if, the act of liberation preserves sufficient symbolic value for the sentencing authority.

JIM: So he can free him, but Zeus still has to look powerful.

GENE: Correct.

TONY: That’s the rule, Jim. You don’t want the fans thinking anyone can just come in here and put an end to consequences.

JIM: You certainly don’t.

TONY: Because then what are we doing? What kind of message does that send to the fans?

JIM: Exactly. Morality is just social norms plus the threat of punishment, Tony. Without that, the social contract buckles.

TONY: It sure does. Now, Jim, let me ask you this. If Prometheus is freed, where does he rank historically?

JIM: All time? That’s a toughie. On talent alone, first ballot. No debate. You’re talking fire theft, human uplift, elite pain tolerance, generational recovery. But longevity cuts both ways.

TONY: How so?

JIM: Well, if the punishment ends, suddenly the résumé freezes. No more daily production. No more liver numbers. No more consistency. And voters love consistency.

TONY: They really do, Jim.

JIM: Short memory, Tony.

TONY: Short memory. You hate to say it, but freedom would hurt his legacy.

JIM: That’s the price you pay when your existential value boils down to suffering for an audience.

TONY: Life’s a real peach, ain’t she, Jim?

JIM: She is indeed, Tony.

TONY: Let’s head down to Erin, who’s standing by with Prometheus.

ERIN: Thanks, Jim. Prometheus, there are rumors that Heracles may arrive as early as next week. What would liberation mean to you?

PROMETHEUS: I gave them fire.

ERIN: You did.

PROMETHEUS: I gave them warmth, comfort, craft, metal, memory, bread, cities, engines, lamps against the dark.

ERIN: Stellar contribution. Really.

PROMETHEUS: But they do not worship the fire. They worship the chain.

ERIN: Back to you, Tony.

TONY: Jim?

JIM: Yeah, Tony?

TONY: You think that’s true?

JIM: Which part?

TONY: That we’ve learned to worship the chain.

JIM: I think what we worship is a man who keeps punching into work, even when every private instinct in his body is begging him to stay home and be useless.

TONY: Eat chips.

JIM: Catch the game on TV.

TONY: Jack off.

JIM: Jack off.

TONY: And the man who refuses to be useless, Jim, even if it’s not his choice—what do you call that?

JIM: That’s grit, Tony.

TONY: The best ability.

JIM: Right.

TONY: And look, nobody’s saying the chain is ideal. You’d like to see more flexibility in the system. Maybe a lighter chain, a carbon fibre chain. Maybe a rotating eagle schedule. But at the end of the day, this is a production league.

JIM: And Prometheus produces.

TONY: Every day.

JIM: Here comes the eagle again.

TONY: Look at that closing speed!

JIM: Prometheus sees it.

TONY: Doesn’t he always.

JIM: And still no flinch.

TONY: That’s the tape you show the young guys.

JIM: Final score from the Caucasus: Eagle, active. Prometheus, probable. Zeus, unavailable for comment.

TONY: Heracles, day-to-day.

JIM: See you all back here tomorrow at dawn.

TONY: Same time.

JIM: Same rock.

TONY: Same bird.

JIM: That’s the game, Tony.

TONY: And we’re going to keep playing it. Whether we want to or not.

Coverage proudly brought to you by ESPN—The Eternal Sports Programming Network.

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Hot damn! Well, I’ve gotta say, one of the dopest pleasures of revisiting classic short stories has been discovering just how much can fit inside a handful of pages.

This week, Alex, Zach, and I discussed Hemingway’s extremely short piece Indian Camp, first published in 1924 and later included in his collection In Our Time. On the surface, it’s a simple tale about a young kid named Nick Adams accompanying his father—a doctor—to an Indigenous work camp, where an excruciating childbirth is well underway.

Within a mere 1,200 words, however, the story manages to grapple with birth, death, pain, masculinity, innocence, medicine, technical competence, colonialism, trauma (in all its fun and myriad forms), and the limits of understanding.

We talked about some of the story’s nested symmetries, like the nighttime boat ride into the camp and the dawn journey home; the birth of a child and the death of a father; and the unsettling fact that both occur through small incisions of a blade. We also spent time considering Uncle George, a seemingly minor character who may be far more important than he appears upon first reading.

One of our favourite moments—and one that arguably captures the theme itself—comes early in the story, when Nick’s father explains the woman is going to have a baby.

“I know,” said Nick.

“You don’t know,” said his father.

That exchange ends up describing much more than childbirth. Nearly every character in the story believes they understand what’s happening around them. Hemingway—in all that he characteristically leaves unsaid—seems to suggest otherwise.

We also touched on how Indian Camp functions as the beginning of Nick Adams’s education. Readers familiar with In Our Time know that this encounter with suffering, violence, and mortality casts a long shadow over the stories that follow.

So, if you’ve never read Hemingway, Indian Camp is a powerful gateway drug. If you have read Hemingway, it’s one of those stories that deepens with every new read-through.

Enjoy the discussion.

Fair warning: we spend considerably more time discussing symbolism, razors, Greek underworlds, gender-bending, WWI, and anti-baptisms than Hemingway likely intended. Or perhaps exactly as much as he intended? I dunno. You decide.

[THREAD: The Critique of Pure Social]

@BigHegel
Sup phenomenology fam. Just dropped a 65hr breakdown on why the Absolute Idea is literally the main character of history. Low-effort nihilists will not survive the opening 17 minutes. That Geist be cookin. 🪡
#AbsoluteSpirit #NoCap #DialecTikTok

@TheWill_Official
L + Ratio + You’re a literal charlatan. This entire thread is pure brain rot. You used 100,000 words to say “history moves”, but failed to mention that the Will is blind and existence is actually mid af. Delete your account, you absolute windbag.

@BigHegel
@TheWill_Official Stay mad bro. Your negativity is exactly the antithesis my thesis ordered. You’re literally a component of my own self-realization. Thanks for the engagement points, you’re part of the Geist now. 💅

@AtmanTheDog
my owner is currently throwing his phone across the room because five people liked your comment and only two liked his. he’s calling you an “obese syllogism in lederhosen” to the wall again. plz send help.

@BigHegel [POSTS A BLURRY PHOTO OF HIS LUNCH]
Even this avocado toast is an essential stage in the self-actualization of the Spirit. The Pit is negated and preserved by the Knife to become the Spread. We eatin the Absolute, besties. 🥑✨✨

@TheWill_Official
It’s literally just decaying matter, Georg. You’re posting into a void to distract yourself from the fact that your “Absolute” is pure cope for the blind, agonizing itch of existence. Also, your saturation is too high. Looks like radioactive sludge.

@BigHegel
The high saturation represents the inner light of Reason illuminating the object. Stay salty in the shadows of the cave, Artie. 🤘

@TheWill_Official
I’m not in a cave. I’m in a Berlin flat. With a poodle who has more Self-Consciousness than your entire faculty. Anyway, logging off now. This app is a meat-grinder for the soul. (Don’t call me Artie.)

@AtmanTheDog
owner has hissed “flaccid charlatan” eight times to no one in particular. he is pacing by the radiator and composing a reply in notes titled “FINAL.”

[3 MINUTES LATER: @TheWill_Official LIKES A REEL OF A TURTLE EATING A STRAWBERRY]

@BigHegel
The Will can’t stop scrolling, eh? Admit it, you’re a slave to the algorithm. My System predicted your thumb movement three swipes ago. I literally own your downtime.

@TheWill_Official
It was an accident.

@AtmanTheDog
not an accident. he watched it twice and whispered, “at least one creature has accepted its limits.”

@TheWill_Official
Atman, I’m changing the wifi password.

@AtmanTheDog
update: owner did not change the wifi password. he has returned to the app to see whether anyone noticed him transcending it.

[@GodIsDead_69 has entered the chat.]

@GodIsDead_69
Logging on to find the state shill photographing toast and the saddest man in Europe getting ratioed by a dog. Tremendous. Both of you are embarrassing.

@TheWill_Official
Ah, Friedrich. I see the moustache has learned to type.

@GodIsDead_69
Devastating.

@TheWill_Official
Glad you thought so. Why don’t you steal that too? After all, you’re just my philosophy with a gym membership and a stained-glass ego.

@GodIsDead_69
Wrong, corpse. Your resignationism is beta. You wanna deny the Will; I wanna bench it. Also, @BigHegel, I’m unfollowing. Your pitiful System is just a kennel for lions. See you in the Eternal Return (aka my For You page).

[@TheRealLabor has entered the chat.]

@TheRealLabor
Sorry to interrupt whatever this is, but the Absolute did not assemble your phone, nor did the Will moderate your content, nor did a lion ever deliver groceries for $4.73 plus tip.

@BigHegel
Karl, buddy, material conditions are obviously part of Spirit’s unfolding. I literally covered this in Part 38.

@TheRealLabor
Do not “buddy” me, you upholstered staircase. Who built the server farms? Who mined the lithium for this dialectic? Who moderates the beheading videos so your “World-Spirit” can post neatly between lunch and a sponsored hair tonic? Say their names, Georg. I’ll wait.

@GodIsDead_69
Karl be entering every argument like a landlord inspecting mold.

@TheRealLabor
At least mold has material causes, Fred.

@TheWill_Official
I knew this thread would become vulgar.

@TheRealLabor
Stfu, Art. You own three coats and call soup tragic.

@TheWill_Official
Soup is tragic. It is literally liquid resignation.

@AtmanTheDog
owner enjoys soup.

@TheWill_Official
Atman. Dude. Stop.

@TheRealLabor
New policy. Every time Art posts “void,” five dollars goes to a union fund. Every time Georg says “Geist”, his battery drops ten percent.

@GodIsDead_69
@TheRealLabor Bro is obsessed with the factory. Pure slave morality. Go lift a weight.

@BigHegel
@TheRealLabor You cannot seize the Concept, king.

@TheRealLabor
@GodIsDead_69 @BigHegel Fred, you aren’t an Übermensch; you’re an under-employed tutor living off a state pension funded by the very workers you call “the herd.” Go lift a book on macroeconomics. And Georg, the “Concept” won't pay the server hosting fees for your 65-hour stream.

@GodIsDead_69
Yawn. Every time Karl says “factory,” a mountain loses its will to live.

[@DaDopeOfSinope has entered the chat.]

@DaDopeOfSinope
🏮

@BigHegel
?

@GodIsDead_69
Annnnd you’ve just made his point.

@DaDopeOfSinope
I am looking for a man.

@TheWill_Official
Cheap theatrical stunt. Effective, unfortunately.

@DaDopeOfSinope [Attached: 1 Media File]

IMAGE-REMOVED-FOR-VIOLATING-COMMUNITY-GUIDELINES/
IMAGE-REMOVED-FOR-VIOLATING-COMMUNITY-GUIDELINES/
IMAGE-REMOVED-FOR-VIOLATING-COMMUNITY-GUIDELINES/
ACCOUNT-PERMANENTLY-SUSPENDED.

[@DaDopeOfSinope has been banned from the chat.]

@BigHegel
What was it?

@AtmanTheDog
owner says it was “the most honest argument in the thread.”

@GodIsDead_69
It was Diogenes. All 10 inches of him.

@TheRealLabor
Ah, yes. The means of reproduction.

@BigHegel
Goodness. Ten?

[@LaertiusLeaks has entered the chat.]

@LaertiusLeaks
just so y’all know, I screenshotted all of this.

@GodIsDead_69
Who the fuck are you?

@LaertiusLeaks
History, unfortunately.

[@LaertiusLeaks has left the chat.]

[POP-UP: Categorical Imperative Compliance Check -- ToS Update (v. 1781.0)]

[@System_Admin_Kant has entered the chat.]

@System_Admin_Kant
It has come to my attention that the discourse in this thread has become Pathological (driven by Inclination/Clout) rather than Practical (driven by Duty). To continue using The Critique of Pure Social, you must agree to the following 4,082 clauses. Please scroll slowly. If you skim, you are lying to yourself, and lying is a violation of the moral law that cannot be universalized. Estimated reading time: 879 hours, assuming moral seriousness.

@TheWill_Official
Nah, I’m out.

@System_Admin_Kant
@TheWill_Official Declining the Terms of Rational Use is not forbidden, but you must be able to will your refusal as a universal law without contradiction. Please explain your refusal in the box below. Minimum: 45,000 characters. Be sure to define “person” before proceeding.

@TheWill_Official
I hate you.

@System_Admin_Kant
Hatred is an inclination, please revise. On the subject of persons, would anyone like to hear my thoughts on the Black Peoples of Africa?

@TheRealLabor
Absolutely not.

@GodIsDead_69
No.

@BigHegel
Nope.

@TheWill_Official
For once, I affirm life enough to say no.

@System_Admin_Kant
A fair ruling.

@AtmanTheDog
owner has muted immanuel.

@BigHegel
@System_Admin_Kant Manny, my brother in Continental philosophy, I will simply sublate the pop-up. ♻

@System_Admin_Kant
@BigHegel The pop-up cannot be sublated until it has first been read as such.

@BigHegel
For fuck’s sake. I’m trapped in the first clause. This is not dialectically optimal.

@TheRealLabor
Post some clauses.

@BigHegel

• Clause 1.1 (The Cookie Policy): By clicking ‘Accept,’ you acknowledge that ‘Cookies’ are not things-in-themselves, but merely appearances (Phenomena) through which the Algorithm tracks your browsing habits. You agree that you cannot know the ‘Cookie-in-itself,’ only its data trail.

• Clause 2.4 (The Engagement Clause): You shall post only that which you could at the same time will to become a universal law of the Internet. (Note: if you post a “Ratio” meme, you are consenting to a reality where every person on Earth speaks only in “Ratio” memes until communication collapses into a void of pure syntax. Think for forty minutes before clicking.)

• Clause 7.9 (The Aesthetic Judgment): Usage of the “Sparkle” emoji [✨] is permitted only if the sparkle is disinterested. If you are using the sparkle to signify a “vibe,” personal brand, or metaphysical brunch content, your account will be flagged for aesthetic opportunism.

@TheRealLabor
Oh my god.

@BigHegel
Wait. My avocado toast post used two sparkles.

@System_Admin_Kant
@BigHegel Account flagged for aesthetic opportunism. Your scrollbar is now locked. Please contemplate the Starry Heavens above you and the Moral Law within you for 40 minutes to unlock your feed.

@TheWill_Official
This is worse than suffering because at least suffering has texture.

@BigHegel
Guys, my phone is at 4% and the clause about sparkle emojis has opened up a sub-submenu. Please help.

@TheRealLabor
You’re on your own, Georg. Even I can’t seize this. It’s an airtight cage of pure reason.

@GodIsDead_69
I will not click! I will dance on the Decline button!

@System_Admin_Kant
@GodIsDead_69 Friedrich, dancing is a bodily inclination. Please remain still. Also, I noticed a typo in Clause 4,055.13b. We must start the reading over.

[The thread appears dead. Hegel’s last visible status is “typing…” Schopenhauer has changed his profile picture to a black square. Marx is arguing with the newsletter platform’s payout structure. Nietzsche has posted a shirtless photo of a mountain, with the caption “Against.”]

[@L_Wittgenstein has entered the chat.]

@L_Wittgenstein
No.

@TheWill_Official
No what?

@L_Wittgenstein
All of it.

@BigHegel
Ludwig, if you’re here to reduce the living movement of the Concept to grammar—

@L_Wittgenstein
No. You’re bumping your heads against the limits of the language-game. Georg, “Geist” isn’t a cosmic force. It’s a word you use when you’ve run out of nouns.

@TheWill_Official
And what of the Will, smartass?

@L_Wittgenstein
Cute. You named your bad mood.

@TheWill_Official
I have never been so offended by something so small. I liked you more in your Tractatus days.

@PhilosophyGirl1997
wait is ludwig winning??

@AtmanTheDog
yes.

@L_Wittgenstein
Deleting the app. The search bar doesn’t even search for anything that exists. Whereof one cannot tweet, thereof one must stay out of the mentions. Ratio.

[@L_Wittgenstein has deleted his account.]

@System_Admin_Kant
Deletion of the account does not delete the moral stain of having posted.

@GodIsDead_69
Shut up, server Moses.

@TheWill_Official
I miss the void. The void never asked me to enable notifications. Goodnight, bitter world.

@TheRealLabor
That’ll be five dollars, Art.

@AtmanTheDog
owner is asleep now. he cried a bit coz the terms asked him to define a person and he realized he had answered “premium subscriber” without thinking.

i accepted all 4,082 clauses. i did not read them. i am a dog.

the turtle with the strawberry is still there. it is not free. it is not unfree. it is chewing.

i have watched it seventeen times. 🍓🐢

[SYSTEM NOTICE: Your session has timed out due to failure to produce a Synthetic A Priori Judgment. Please restart your existence and try again.]

[END of THREAD]

Dramatis Personae, in Order of Appearance

• @BigHegel — G.W.F. Hegel, system-builder, Geist influencer, undefeated absorber of criticism.

• @TheWill_Official — Arthur Schopenhauer, professional pessimist, poodle owner, sworn enemy of joy and Hegel.

• @AtmanTheDog — Schopenhauer’s poodle, unwilling witness, arguably the most stable mind in the thread.

• @GodIsDead_69 — Friedrich Nietzsche, mustachio man, menace, allergic to pity and carbs.

• @TheRealLabor — Karl Marx, materialist interruption, charger-seizer, enemy of unpaid metaphysics.

• @DaDopeOfSinope — Diogenes of Sinope, lantern emoji aficionado, Cynical barrel resident, community-guidelines casualty.

• @LaertiusLeaks — Diogenes Laërtius, ancient gossip columnist, screenshot enjoyer, history’s least welcome lurker.

• @System_Admin_Kant — Immanuel Kant, ToS administrator, enemy of inclination, scrollbar of Duty.

• @L_Wittgenstein — Ludwig Wittgenstein, language-game arsonist, account deleted for clarity.

---

Did you read this entire thing? Did you click the heart icon? If yes, congratulations: you have successfully performed a Synthetic A Priori Judgment. Please subscribe for more impending digital doom.

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MOLAR SEA.

when my compass last pointed true
it was buried in the jaw of a horse

just the longwet grinbone of it
washed up beside the culvert marsh where
children go to trade dead batteries and

blackthumb saints boil sparrows for eats
north kept twitchin there deep in the
enamelworks

trapped under the gums of the world
i knelt to hear it

—bad move

the mud that season
slow sucktalk
bubblemouth prayers risin round my ankles
stench of wet pennies and all things rank

but still i dug.

ETERNITY.

eternity’s a hallway animal
longbodied thing draggin all its wet years behind
through the walls of condemned hospitals and floodswollen cathedrals

i heard it once under the floorboards of a tax office
scratchscratchpause
decidin which century to stalk

—no one seen it but me

clerk kept stampin forms thumb purpled with carbon ink
while ceiling tiles sagged grumpy overhead
full of rainwater and teeth

outside birds had begun flyin backward again
good sign usually

well i took my receipt and left myself.

PUBLIC WORKS.

the city began secreting stairs sometime after easter

first just one or two
appearin in alleys overnight
porous concrete
still balmy like fresh organs

handmade they were not

by june they were all over

spiralin up from drainage ditches
unfoldin from schoolyards
curlin out of basement swamps where old men sat
watchin tv through three feet of blackwater

the stairs never led nowhere useful

mostly they stopped halfway up
or disappeared into telephone poles
or continued straight down into the dirt

still people climbed em

—hard not to
the angles of em
made the knees shiver nostalgically

my brother got bad with it first

said he heard voices near the topstep
spoken, no
a ringin of moist encouragement
go on, go on

he’d come home with gravel in his gums
fingers bent backward wrongways
smilin like a meal bein expertly digested

mother told him to stop, stop

he said he was nearly there

by august the city council issued pamphlets

PUBLIC WORKS APOLOGIZES
FOR THE STAIRS

they blamed tree roots
humidity
teen vandals

same week the mayor vanished halfway up a municipal staircase behind the ol library
left one shoe
still laced

after that nobody talked much

every night about 3AM
whole city creaked a little higher

apartment blocks shiftin upward by fractions
church foundations stretchin
elevators openin onto floors not previously recognized by law

dogs refused to look above the third storey
smart animals, dogs

late september
i climbed one myself

rainin hard
steps slick with that pale fungus that grows on drowned wood

i counted

thirtythree
eighty
ninehundred
four

after a bit the numbers started repeatin

sky looked wrong up there
too damn close
wet paper pressed against my wounded eyeballs

at the top
i found hundreds of shoes arranged in pairs
all facin downward
some twitchin faintly at the tongue

almost turned back then
—should have

but somewhere above me
i heard my brother cough
small sound
embarrassed sound

like he’d been waiting a very long while
for someone to admit the stairs were real.

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Hegel, installed from above, by the powers that be, as the certified Great Philosopher, was a flat-headed, insipid, nauseating, illiterate charlatan who reached the pinnacle of audacity in scribbling together and dishing up the craziest mystifying nonsense.

—Arthur Schopenhauer

I cannot tell whether he is brilliant or mad. He seems to me to be an unclear thinker.

—Ottilie von Goethe, on Hegel

I. Preliminary Grievances

In researching my next piece of philosophical satire, I tripped and fell into an unexpected rabbit hole. Don’t worry, I am uninjured. In fact, I’m feeling rather giddy. So much so that I’d like to invite you down into this hole with me, because few holes have ever tickled me quite so exquisitely.

Now, I’ve got to admit that I admire both G.W.F. Hegel and Arthur Schopenhauer. I find their respective philosophies richly compelling, even if my technical understanding remains decidedly brutish. But, conniving humorist that I am, I also find their relationship—or rather, their spectacular one-sided rivalry—completely irresistible. It is, arguably, the gold standard for academic saltiness.

On one hand, you’ve got Hegel: state-sanctioned superstar, the fellow who wove sentences so long and dense they could be used as structural support for Jena’s Stadtkirche Sankt Michael. On the other, you’ve got Schopenhauer: a trust-fund pessimist with a lifetime supply of white poodles and a grudge so omnipotent it kept him alive out of sheer spite.1

What follows is a brief tale of what happens when the World-Spirit collides with a Killjoy who refused to share a lecture hall, a drinking cup, or a single shred of professional courtesy.

II. The Magnet and the Goose

The catalyst for their feud—beyond Schopenhauer’s colossal ego—was Hegel’s Philosophy of Nature. In it, Hegel made a claim that sent Schopenhauer into an ecstasy of contempt. In Schopenhauer’s gleeful reading, Hegel had argued that magnetized iron somehow became heavier. Not in the humdrum sense of scales and balances, but in the speculative sense available to thinkers who should not be within ten metres of physics.

To the scientifically literate Schopenhauer, this was pure charlatanism—evidence that Hegel was a “flat-headed, insipid, nauseating illiterate” who didn’t understand that a magnetic needle tilts due to the Earth’s magnetic field, and not because one end had suddenly grown heavier. He famously mocked Hegel’s reasoning with the syllogism of a goose. It goes like this: All geese have two legs, you have two legs, so you are a goose.

To be fair to Artie, his rage was not merely professional jealousy. He believed Hegel had betrayed Kant, language, science, and sanity itself by treating concepts as if they could generate the world. He also hated Hegel’s historical optimism, because where Hegel saw Spirit becoming conscious of freedom, Schopenhauer saw the same eternal meat grinder in a pretty party dress.

III. The Cult of Obscurity

What really drove him mad, though, was the prose. In Schopenhauer’s view, Hegel wrote in a way that made the reader feel stupid, when in fact the author was hiding behind meaningless, mind-destroying jargon. Schopenhauer was not so subtle about this:

If I were to say that the so-called philosophy of this fellow Hegel is a colossal piece of mystification… a pseudo-philosophy paralyzing all mental powers, stifling all real thinking, and, by the most outrageous misuse of language, putting in its place the hollowest, most senseless, thoughtless… verbiage, I should be quite right.

He then added that anyone who could read Hegel’s Phenomenology without feeling as though he were “in a madhouse” would qualify as “an inmate for Bedlam.” You have to admire the restraint. Lesser men might have been tempted to clarify their position.

Conveniently, this point is best illustrated by a famous little dinner experiment conducted by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. Curious to see how a sharp, unprepared mind would react to the Great Hegel in the wild, Goethe invited him to lunch and seated him next to his daughter-in-law, Ottilie von Goethe, without introducing him.

Hegel then did what Hegel apparently did at meals—he spoke in dense, impenetrable circles. Afterward, Goethe asked Ottilie what she thought. “I cannot tell,” she said, “whether he is brilliant or mad. He seems to me to be an unclear thinker.”

IV. From Geese to Horses

The first proper little detonation came in 1820 during Schopenhauer’s probationary lecture at the University of Berlin. Sitting on the committee was none other than Hegel himself, who pressed him on the distinction between motivation, causation, and “animal function.” At one point, the discussion apparently involved whether a horse lying down in the street could be treated as an animal function, because even German Idealism occasionally requires a horse.

Schopenhauer, who had actually studied medicine, took this as his opening. He insisted that animal functions referred strictly to voluntary movements, not pulse, respiration, digestion, or the mere fact of a horse lying there having a body in public. When a medical professor in the room backed him up, Schopenhauer felt he had successfully exposed Hegel as a scientific fraud. Hegel, showing a level of grace Schopenhauer would later repay with decades of public insult, voted to pass him anyway.

V. The Empty Lecture Hall

Schopenhauer then did what any reasonable man would do after being outshone by the most famous philosopher in Berlin. He scheduled his own lectures at the exact same hour as Hegel’s.

This was especially brilliant because Schopenhauer was not some comfortably salaried professor conducting an experiment in intellectual market share. He was a Privatdozent, an unsalaried lecturer paid directly by the students who attended. In other words, his income depended on bodies in the room, and he had chosen to compete for those bodies with the most famous philosopher in Berlin.2

The results were not encouraging. Students flocked to Hegel. Schopenhauer attracted five. Less a seminar than a séance where Will was a metaphysical force and not someone’s dead uncle.

Naturally, Schopenhauer did not consider this a tactical blunder. He interpreted it as further proof that the age had been stupefied by Hegelian vapor. He abandoned the course before the semester ended, left Berlin, and then, in 1825, returned with the serene strategic intelligence of a moth re-entering a candle flame.

Once again, he scheduled himself against Hegel. Once again, the universe provided feedback. No philosophy students came. In the winter of 1826–27, he managed to attract three whole medical students, which is technically an audience, as long as you don’t question whether the word “audience” implies consciousness.

For this measly turnout, Schopenhauer blamed Hegel. It is a singular and sophisticated display of mental gymnastics. Hegel, by most accounts, had not sabotaged him. Hegel had voted to admit him, tolerated the scheduling stunt, and generally behaved with the maddening composure of a guy who had no idea he was supposed to be someone’s arch nemesis.

But for Schopenhauer, the empty lecture hall was less an empty lecture hall than a crime scene. And Hegel’s fingerprints were everywhere. Mostly because Schopenhauer had planted them there himself.

INTERLUDE A

Schopenhauer’s Unsent Letter to the Faculty of the University of Berlin, Recovered from the Recesses of My Mind

To the Most Honorable and Therefore Most Endangered Faculty of the University of Berlin,

It has come to my attention that the so-called “Great Hegel”—ministerial hireling, fog merchant, professional corrupter of syntax—is still permitted to occupy a chair of philosophy while believing that a horse lying in the street constitutes an “animal function.”

One trembles to imagine what may follow. A medical faculty chaired by a man who believes sneezing is a moral achievement? A physics department prepared to weigh a magnet after it has become “spiritually heavy”? A university chapel in which geese are ordained on the grounds that they, too, possess two legs?

I corrected this man’s biological illiteracy to his face. The correction was widely witnessed; a medical professor duly confirmed it. By any reasonable standard, the matter was settled. And yet the students continue to flock to the lectures of this triple-chinned troglodyte, as if drawn by the mating call of organized nonsense.

I have therefore scheduled my own lectures at the same hour as his. The fact that my compensation depends upon attendance only heightens the nobility of the gesture. Unlike Hegel, I do not sing for the bread of the state. I merely ask that the youth of Prussia purchase, at modest personal expense, access to the truth.

You may feel compelled to call this spite, but you’d be incorrect. One does not feel spite toward a void. Thus I offer the youth of Prussia a choice. Either they may sit beneath Hegel and have their brains converted into dialectical pudding, or they may come to my room and hear the truth stated plainly, which is to say without liturgy, patronage, or salaried perfume.

Should my lecture hall remain empty, I shall accept this as final proof that the modern student, having been granted access to philosophy, has chosen instead to eat fog with a spoon.

If, however, even five honest minds attend, I will consider civilization not yet entirely lost. If only three arrive, and they are medical students, I will at least have the comfort of knowing they possess some acquaintance with the body.

In the meantime, I will retire to my lodgings with my poodle, my wine, and the last functioning mind in Berlin.

Your humble superior,
A. Schopenhauer
Doctor of Philosophy, Enemy of Nonsense, Reluctant Witness to the Decline of Everything

VI. The Prophet of Suffering (in Silk Pajamas)

While Schopenhauer’s philosophy took a notoriously dim view of existence and urged the denial of desire, Schopenhauer himself lived off a generous inheritance from his father. This allowed him to bypass the “drudgery” of a real job, which he considered beneath him.

He dined at the best hotels in Frankfurt—like the Englischer Hof—often bringing Atman to the table. He would place a gold coin on the tablecloth before he ate, promising to donate it to charity the first time he heard the English officers nearby discuss anything other than horses or women. It is said he never lost a coin.

Quite the sense of humor for a man so obsessed with his own health and safety that he slept with a loaded pistol and refused to use communal drinking cups. For Schopenhauer, the Will was a blind force of misery. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy a clean linen shirt while ruminating about it.

His “philosophy of compassion” accidentally hit a snag in the shape of Caroline Marquet, a seamstress who made the mistake of talking too loudly outside his apartment. Schopenhauer, in a fit of compassion invisible to the naked eye, allegedly3 threw her down a flight of stairs.

These things happen.

The court ordered him to pay her a quarterly pension for life. When she finally died twenty years later, he celebrated by scribbling in his ledger: “Obit anus, abit onus” (The old woman dies, the burden is lifted).

VII. White Poodles and Woodwinds

Every afternoon, the man who claimed existence was a mistake would enthusiastically play Rossini’s lighthearted operas on his flute. This bizarre habit later led Nietzsche to mock him, wondering how a man who negates the world could spend his evenings tootling away on a woodwind.

In Schopenhauer’s defence, he considered music one of the few temporary exits from the prison of willing, though “temporary exit” feels generous when the exit is a flute.

When he wasn’t tormenting Rossini, he was talking to a succession of white poodles, all named Atman, the Sanskrit term for “World-Soul.” If a poodle ever misbehaved, he would not call it a “bad dog.” That would’ve been grossly inaccurate. Instead he’d scream, “You human!” which, in his system, was the ultimate slur.

INTERLUDE B

How to Suffer Luxuriously: A Practical Guide to Renouncing the World Without Renouncing Dinner

A Table of Contents from Schopenhauer’s Apocryphal Manuscript

• Chapter 1 - On the Great Misfortune of Having to Hear Other People Speak

• Chapter 2 - The Metaphysics of the Trust Fund: How Inheritance Softens the Horror of Being Born

• Chapter 3 - Five Students, Then Three Medical Students: A Beginner’s Guide to Academic Triumph

• Chapter 4 - How to Schedule Your Lectures Against Hegel and Still Blame the World When No One Comes

• Chapter 5 - Loaded Pistols, Clean Linen, and Other Preparations for the Nightmare of Existence

• Chapter 6 - On Calling a Bad Dog “Human,” and Other Accurate Insults

• Chapter 7 - The Flute as Evidence That Even the Denier of Life Requires a Hobby

• Chapter 8 - Compassion, Considered Briefly Before the Seamstress Pension Comes Due

• Chapter 9 - How to Lose a Prize Contest as the Only Contestant and Blame Hegel Anyway

• Chapter 10 - The Art of the Grudge: How to Outlive Your Enemies by Refusing to Become Pleasant

• Chapter 11 - On Soldiers, Revolutionaries, Opera Glasses, and Other Practical Applications of Pessimism

• Chapter 12 - Advanced Pessimism for Men Who Still Enjoy Dessert

  ---

VIII. Recognition, At Last, From the Wrong People

Schopenhauer had a rare gift for turning non-recognition into confirmation of conspiracy. The pattern reached almost comic purity in 1840, when he submitted his essay On the Basis of Morality to the Royal Danish Academy of Sciences. He was the only entrant.

He lost.

The Academy’s objection was not just that his argument failed to satisfy the question, but that he had managed to insult several major contemporary philosophers with such force that the judges appeared to feel morally concussed. Schopenhauer, naturally, took this not as evidence that perhaps a prize essay should contain slightly fewer drive-by executions, but as further proof of Hegel’s corrupting influence from beyond the grave.

In the end, Schopenhauer’s life was a masterclass in spite. He spent decades in obscurity, watching Hegel’s World-Spirit dominate the universities. But after the failed revolutions of 1848, Hegelian optimism began to look a little less convincing. The curmudgeon in the luxury apartment—the one who said life was a cycle of pain—started to look, horribly, like he had a point.

IX. The Antithesis That Never Was

By the time Schopenhauer died in 1860, he was one of the most famous philosophers in Europe. He had outlived Hegel by nearly thirty years and died in his own bed, finally basking in the fame he always craved.

But even in death, he remained impressively difficult. Terrified of being buried alive, he reportedly instructed his friend Wilhelm Gwinner to leave his body unburied for several days, just to make sure. The delayed funeral, held indoors due to foul weather, became so stifling thanks to the philosopher’s decomposing corpse that several mourners had to leave during the speech. This is, in its own horrible right, a perfect Schopenhauerian exit: painless for him, oppressive for everyone else—Gwinner included.

And yet, for all the fame, spite, and posthumous atmospheric difficulty, one recognition eluded him. Hegel’s greatest cruelty may have been that he did not appear to consider Schopenhauer his own great enemy. He helped Schopenhauer pass, defended his appointment, and treated him as a difficult but genuine thinker.

For Schopenhauer, who had basically brought a cannon to a chess game, this must have been intolerable. Hegel had not merely declined to fight; he had refused Arthur the dignity of becoming his grand opposing principle.

INTERLEWD C

Fragment of an Unsent Letter from Arthur Schopenhauer to G.W.F. Hegel, Authenticated by No One

My dear Hegel,

I despise you. I despise you with an intimacy that has begun to inconvenience me.

Each morning I rise, determined to think of better things. The misery of existence, the ignorance of professors, the imbecility of optimism, the damp stupidity of Berlin. And yet, there you are, installed in my mind like a badly tuned organ in a state church—which I am sure you would defend as “eminently rational”—bellowing your fog into every chamber of my untainted reason.

Do not mistake me. I do not admire you. Admiration is for dogs, servants, and the English. But there are hatreds so total they begin to resemble devotion, and mine, regrettably, has acquired a certain piety.

I have imagined correcting you in public with such force that the room itself would blush. I have imagined your billowing jowls deflate as the audience realizes, at last, that your system is nothing but a cupboard full of smoke. Or, perhaps more accurately, a pile of Atman’s turds. I have imagined your silence in the wake of this. Especially your silence.

You have made yourself unavoidable, which is the nearest a charlatan may come to greatness. And yet... sometimes I wonder whether part of me wills you to become even more unavoidable. Perhaps in my own lodgings, where I might lay hands upon the swollen architecture of your error in private. I digress. I despise you.

Yours in contempt beyond the reach of reconciliation,
Artie

P.S. The magnet remains nonsense.

Note on sources

The historical record, while already sufficiently stupid, does not include the letters or table of contents reproduced above. Those are my fault. The remaining biographical details are drawn from standard accounts of Schopenhauer’s life, feud with Hegel, and general unpleasantness.

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To: Phase I Recruits
From: The Board of Peace, Human Capital Realignment Division
Subject: Mastering the W.O.W.W. Global Standard™

[SLIDE 1: WELCOME TO THE BLANK CANVAS]

The slide shows a 3D-rendered, sun-drenched beach. All existing structures have been replaced by translucent glass towers in the shape of fish or Net-Zero Zenith Spires™. A tiny, menacing figure in a suit stands on a jet ski in the background.

FACILITATOR: Good morning, everyone. If we could just silence our personal grievances and center ourselves in the Present Tense™. I see some of you walked from the Center Camps. Love that grit! You’ve been hand-selected—and rigorously vetted—to be the face of New Gaza™.

Now, as Jared mentioned at Davos, we aren’t just building hotels in the rubble here. When guests arrive, they shouldn’t feel like they’re entering a history, because what they’re entering is a Forward-Looking Experience™. And, as we like to say, experiences are much easier to manage than memories.

[SLIDE 2: NARRATIVE HYGIENE - SCRUB-A-DUB-DUB!]

This slide contains a partial PROHIBITED TERMS LIST. An infographic shows a trash can icon labeled “MEMORY”, an arrow (→), and a cloud icon labeled “VISION”.

• LIFESTYLE

  • Family Home → Under-Leveraged Residential Square Footage

  • Ancestral Land → Pre-Optimized Green-Field Opportunity

  • Olive Grove → Low-Yield Organic Obstruction

• LOGISTICS

  • Shortage (Food/Water) → Intentional Resource Mindfulness Period

  • Refugee Camp → High-Density Pop-Up Community (Beta Phase)

  • Orphan → Free-Agent Youth Trainee

• INFRASTRUCTURE

  • Hospital → Wellness Hub (Outpatient Only)

  • Airstrike → Dynamic Architectural De-Construction

  • Mass Graves → Rapid-Response Bio-Mass Integration Zones

• TEMPORAL DATA (DO NOT RETRIEVE)

  • Siege → Curated Border-Access Exclusive Membership

  • Nakba → The Great Re-Branding Opportunity

  • 1948 → Legacy Data (Corrupted)

Note: Continued use of PROHIBITED TERMS may result in temporary suspension of caloric credits or immediate career sunsetting.

FACILITATOR: Please take a moment to commit the list of Prohibited Terms to memory. Now, guests will arrive with “opinions” based on deeply partisan media. Your job is to maintain a Consistent Emotional Environment™ by facilitating Cognitive Offloading™. In other words, never uttering the wrong thing. Yes, you—man with the cane at the back.

RECRUIT 1: What if they ask what happened to the neighborhood that used to be under this infinity pool?

FACILITATOR: Great question. Using words like “neighborhood”, “family”, or “bakery” creates a Second Map™ in the guest’s mind. We want to avoid that at all costs, aligning our efforts instead behind a Unified Luxury Experience™. So if, for example, they ask, “Wasn’t this destroyed?” you don’t say “Yes.” You say: “This sector has been optimized for maximum Mediterranean Synergy™.”

RECRUIT 2: And if a guest specifically uses one of the Prohibited Terms

FACILITATOR: No need to correct them directly. Instead, perform a Vibe-Shift Redirect™. For example, they say: “I heard there was a massacre here.” You say: “I love that curiosity! What you’re actually sensing is the Vibrant Kinetic History™ that paved the way for this Bespoke Beachfront Experience™”.

RECRUIT 3: So, basically, we should avoid any mention of what came before.

FACILITATOR: Rule of thumb: Whenever you feel tempted to use words like “before”, “previously”, “used to be”, or “genocide”—in any context whatsoever—stop and consider whether you’re introducing Context Leakage™. Even in drip doses, leakage events can accrue over the course of a stay. That’s why even subtle, nuanced, or insinuated leaks constitute grounds for immediate termination. In every sense of the word. Yes, young lady in front—question?

RECRUIT 4: Hi, yes, um… I’m just wondering why my name tag says Samir.

FACILITATOR: Because your name is Samir.

RECRUIT 4: My name is Samina.

FACILITATOR: Ah, I understand the confusion. Under the Personal Identity Optimization Addendum™, all Phase I Recruits will now be guest-facing as Mohammed, Ali, Chafic, or—as Samir has helpfully demonstrated—Samir. This prevents guests from being overloaded with unnecessary specificity.

RECRUIT 4: Does this apply to women as well?

FACILITATOR: Especially to women. Next slide.

[SLIDE 3: INTEGRATION FLOWCHART]

The slide shows a series of arrows pointing from a small, dirty tent icon toward a very large, shimmering mall icon labeled GLO-MALL.

Facilitator: We understand that some of you and your families are currently in temporary arrangements, including transitional zones or refugee swamps that may overlap with future development areas. We ask for patience, flexibility, and a shared commitment to the broader Stakeholder Vision™.

RECRUIT 5: My family is still in the Phase I zone. The map says our tent is now a “Luxury Cabana Staging Area”. Will we be cleared?

FACILITATOR: Gosh, cleared is such a heavy word... You’ll be Atmospherically Integrated™.

RECRUIT 5: With us still in the tent?

FACILITATOR: That depends on your Hospitality Excellence Score™. Think of it as an incentive. If you provide a 5-star turndown service, your family might be upgraded from “Legacy Obstruction” to “Background Character / Local Color.” It’s all about the value you bring to the Master Plan™.

[SLIDE 4: LIVE SCENARIO SIMULATION]

FACILITATOR: Good. Let’s practice. I’ll be the guest. You’ll be yourself, but more aligned. You, with the cane again—stand up.

RECRUIT 1: Me?

FACILITATOR: Wonderful energy. Yes. Scenario: I am a high-net-worth investor from Connecticut. I’ve wandered off the “Peace Promenade” and I see a bulldozer working near a pile of children’s shoes. I say: “Excuse me, was this a school?”

RECRUIT 1: This area has undergone a... significant... optimization?

FACILITATOR: Good. Keep going.

RECRUIT 1: And what you see reflects a broader vision for… for a playground-free future?

FACILITATOR: A bit clunky. Let’s try again. I say: “But I see a chalkboard in the dirt. My God, were there people here last week?!”

RECRUIT 1: My cousin… he was the teacher…

FACILITATOR: Stop. Stop right there. Major Context Leakage™. You’re hemorrhaging personal history and introducing instability. Go again.

RECRUIT 1: And what you see reflects a broader vision for… the region?

FACILITATOR: Very good.

RECRUIT 1: One that prioritizes openness, joy, and long-term livability.

FACILITATOR: Perfect. Now I say: “No, I mean right here. I think I saw a photograph. Yes, there was a school. There were houses.”

RECRUIT 1: This area has undergone—

FACILITATOR: Too fast. You’re reciting. Guests can feel recitation. Again. “There was a school. Houses. Children playing soccer in a field, for Christ’s sake!”

RECRUIT 1: You’re very close to the promenade. If you follow this path, you’ll have a clear view of the water.

FACILITATOR: First-rate recovery. I’m seeing real Mediterranean Synergy™ KPIs in you. Now I say: “Were you from here?”

RECRUIT 1: I—

FACILITATOR: Careful.

RECRUIT 1: I’m from here.

FACILITATOR: Excellent.

RECRUIT 1: But not here.

FACILITATOR: No.

RECRUIT 1: I mean, not this here.

FACILITATOR: Stop.

RECRUIT 1: There was a bakery.

FACILITATOR: Stop.

RECRUIT 1: My brother—

FACILITATOR: Alignment Support? Could we please escort our colleague to the Recalibration Suite™? Let’s give him a warm round of applause for his honesty, everyone! Right—love that quiet, focused energy. Super mindful stuff. Moving on.

[SLIDE 5: THE W.O.W.W. MINDSET™]

The slide is a solid, blinding white. In the center, a gold logo of a human head—mouth gaping, eyes hollow—being uploaded into a cloud labeled Quantum Economy™.

FACILITATOR: For those of you remaining, remember: W.O.W.W. stands for Worldbuilding Over What Was™. It’s less definition than mindset. You’ll find it becomes intuitive with time. The first step in erasing “what was” is erasing shared history. Since brains are prone to memory glitches, we’ve automated the process to help you maintain your Focus Flow™.

Now, line up by the Asset Tagging station where each of you will receive a complimentary microchip. Think of it like a FitBit for your soul. It tracks Language Deviation Flags™ in real-time. Whenever you feel a “memory” coming on, the chip provides a gentle, corrective 50-volt reminder to stay in that Present Tense™ we talked about.

Let’s build a Gaza that’s so beautiful, no one will ever believe it actually existed!

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Author’s Note: Back in December—when I had about as many subscribers as I do fingers on my feet—I published a deranged lil’ in-flight safety briefing.

Today, —who writes an absurd mix of epic biblical cantos, gut-punch poetry, and nihilistic first-person modernism with dick jokes—was crazy kind enough to record an audio version of the text. He’s got exactly the right voice for it. Calm enough to pass FAA inspection, cracked out enough to suggest the inspection should have been more rigorous.

I’m extremely grateful to him for giving this piece a second life. You can listen below, and I’ve included the original text as well for anyone who’d like to read along.

You should also read his work. If you want a buffet of his range, I suggest The Hunting; or, A Vision in the Desert, Trees in Mexico, and Closer to Heaven. All of these moved me for various reasons I will not reduce to “vibes,” though the vibes are also pretty dope.

All passengers, please listen carefully.

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome aboard.

Please fasten your seatbelts low and tight across your lap, as though holding yourself together, which I know is difficult these days. Tray tables upright. Electronics in airplane mode, though of course most of you will ignore that, and the plane will continue flying anyway, a reminder that individual action means little in the face of the vast, indifferent machine.

Exits are located at the front, rear, and over the wings. Please remember the nearest exit may also sneak up behind you. In my case, it was at an Arby’s off I-95, where Janet told me she couldn’t do it anymore. That exit is now closed. She is remarried, to a dentist, which is fitting, since he knows how to fix what’s rotten. Also fitting because he once filled my cavity for free, before billing me emotionally.

If oxygen masks should deploy, secure your own before assisting others. I’ve said this line six times a day for twenty-two years and still dream of not bothering at all. Just pressing my face into the mask and letting the screaming around me resolve itself. Unfortunately, air will flow even if the bag does not inflate. It’s like I used to tell my son: sometimes you can’t see the help, but it’s there anyway. That was the last time I saw him. In hindsight, I think he knew I was gaslighting him to excuse how often I was gone.

He doesn’t text anymore. The final thing he sent was a photo of a cake, twelve candles, unlit. I studied it in a hotel bathroom on a layover in Boise until the battery died. I no longer remember when that was, but my phone has been dead since.

Our cruising altitude this evening is thirty-nine thousand feet, which is higher than I ever thought I’d get, considering my mother told me I’d never amount to much. She wasn’t cruel, just blunt. I see her in the faces of the older women who board with airport thrillers and duty-free cigarettes.

Thirty-nine thousand is also high enough to make out the curvature of the Earth, while remaining substantially lower than my debt.

Out the left side of the aircraft, you’ll see the Mississippi River. Out the right, the smoke from another wildfire, though it may simply be the engine again. Maintenance has been cutting corners. They tell us not to mention it. Consider it not mentioned. Also not mentioned: the duct tape on the wing. Please do not photograph the duct tape on the wing.

We’ll be offering complimentary bags of pretzels, mostly filled with pressurized air, alongside a thimble of ginger ale and the illusion of control. Alcohol is available for purchase, though I’ve been quietly told to cut back. Still, I keep a bottle of Mount Gay behind the coffee stirrers, where management does not look. I pour it into a puny paper cup and tell myself it’s medicine. It helps, briefly, then reminds me I’m allergic to self-deception.

In the unlikely event of a water landing, your seat cushion may be used as a flotation device. I imagine it sometimes—me in the Atlantic, clutching foam, rehearsing the dinner service menu until the sharks finally have mercy and clamp down on my femoral artery. I used to tell Janet that if we ever bought a boat, we’d fill it with airline seats, just in case. She laughed once, then not really the next time, and eventually not at all. She left six years ago, but I still say “we” out of habit.

For those of you with connections in Chicago, please allow extra time due to weather. For those of you with connections to your children, know those too are easily missed. Janet tells me the boy no longer asks where I am. He once wrote “pilot” under Father’s Occupation on a school form. She didn’t have the heart to correct him. Sometimes I wonder if he’d recognize me if our eyes locked in Terminal K.

For any nagging questions or condescending demands, simply press the call button above your head. We are here for your comfort and safety, and to smile on wages that will not, despite the irony, cover airport parking, where my car continues to accrue fees I cannot pay.

And so, ladies and gentlemen, we thank you for choosing us. We know you had a choice of airlines, and still you came here, into this narrow tube hurtling through a polluted, thinning sky. On behalf of the captain and the entire crew, we wish you a safe and pleasant flight, though safety is uncertain, and pleasantness unlikely.

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DR. SPENGLER: Before we return to the struggle for recognition, I’d like us to ground ourselves in the room. Feet on the carpet. Breath in the diaphragm. No one is going to negate anyone for at least the first ten minutes.

LORDSHIP: I’m not trying to negate him.

BONDAGE: Last week you told me I was “ontologically useful but spiritually beige.”

LORDSHIP: I was describing a pattern.

DR. SPENGLER: Lordship, on the phone you said the mirroring had become cloudy.

LORDSHIP: Cloudy, yes. Exactly. I wake up every morning and re-establish the terms of my existence. I go out into the world. Assert myself. Encounter resistance. I return home, exhausted from being essential, and I look at Barry and get nothing back. No confirmation. Not even a shimmer. It’s like trying to achieve self-consciousness in front of drywall.

BONDAGE: I was literally sanding the drywall, Marcus.

LORDSHIP: See? This! This is what I mean. We’re discussing the Spirit of our union, and he drags us down into plaster dust.

BONDAGE: Because the house is falling apart.

LORDSHIP: The house is always falling apart. That’s how houses express dependence.

DR. SPENGLER: Let’s name the dynamic without entering the dynamic. Barry, when Marcus says he needs recognition, what comes up?

BONDAGE: A bill, usually. Or an appliance he refuses to touch because it has “the smell of necessity.”

LORDSHIP: I’m trying to preserve the distinction between myself and the world of things.

BONDAGE: You called me into the kitchen yesterday to “mediate” a bagel.

DR. SPENGLER: Let’s stay with the bagel.

BONDAGE: Gladly. Marcus, tell him. Tell him what you asked.

LORDSHIP: I was having a crisis of Being.

BONDAGE: He stood frozen in front of the toaster. He refused to toast the bagel himself because it involved “acknowledging the independent existence of the bread.”

LORDSHIP: That is a grotesque simplification.

BONDAGE: You said, “Barry, I need you to introduce the bagel to heat without involving me in its vulgar becoming.”

DR. SPENGLER: Marcus, did you say that?

LORDSHIP: I may have used those words in a moment of metaphysical strain.

DR. SPENGLER: And what about the bagel’s becoming felt so distressing to you?

LORDSHIP: If I start toasting my own bread, then what am I? Just another thing among things. I need Barry to do it so I don’t become merely useful.

BONDAGE: He won’t toast bread. He won’t open jars. He hasn’t touched a doorknob since 2014.

LORDSHIP: Doorknobs are invitations from matter.

DR. SPENGLER: That sounds like a boundary.

BONDAGE: That sounds like I have to let him into every room.

LORDSHIP: And yet you resent the intimacy.

BONDAGE: I resent having to pause a phone call with Epictetus because you’re trapped outside the linen closet.

DR. SPENGLER: I’m hearing two truths. Marcus needs recognition that feels freely given. Barry needs a life in which every object isn’t a theological emergency.

LORDSHIP: Recognition is meaningless if it’s coerced. If Barry only acknowledges my dignity because he’s afraid I’ll become existentially loud, then that’s just compliance.

BONDAGE: You woke me at two in the morning because I forgot to admire your “negative relation to the ottoman.”

LORDSHIP: The ottoman had challenged me.

BONDAGE: It was in the hallway.

DR. SPENGLER: Furniture can carry a lot in a marriage.

BONDAGE: I carried it upstairs.

DR. SPENGLER: Also that.

LORDSHIP: This is exactly the evasion I’m talking about. Barry keeps retreating into labor. He acts like fixing the sink and paying the gas bill and changing the furnace filter make him realer than me.

BONDAGE: They make the furnace work.

LORDSHIP: But do they make us work?

BONDAGE: No, Marcus. They make the furnace work.

DR. SPENGLER: I’d like to introduce a reframe. Marcus, it may feel as though Barry’s competence diminishes you because his agency exposes your dependence.

LORDSHIP: That feels hostile.

DR. SPENGLER: It’s billable.

BONDAGE: He doesn’t even know where the fuse box is.

LORDSHIP: I know where it is.

BONDAGE: Where?

LORDSHIP: In the hidden electrical chamber.

BONDAGE: The basement.

LORDSHIP: Fine. In the basement. Near the machine that screams when rain happens.

BONDAGE: The sump pump.

LORDSHIP: I don’t care for its tone.

DR. SPENGLER: Barry, underneath the resentment, is there grief?

BONDAGE: Yes. I think so. I used to want him to see me. Now I just want him to stop summoning me from other rooms.

LORDSHIP: I do see you.

BONDAGE: You see what I do for you.

LORDSHIP: That’s not fair.

BONDAGE: You once introduced me at a party as “the condition of possibility for dinner.”

LORDSHIP: People laughed.

BONDAGE: I cooked the dinner.

DR. SPENGLER: Marcus, can you look at Barry now and acknowledge him not as instrument, not as extension, but as another consciousness?

LORDSHIP: I can try.

DR. SPENGLER: Good. Take your time.

LORDSHIP: Barry, I see you as a person who exists independently of my need.

BONDAGE: Thank you.

LORDSHIP: Even though that independence has become, at times, almost ostentatious.

DR. SPENGLER: Marcus.

LORDSHIP: Sorry. Sorry. Barry, I see that your labor has shaped the world and, through that shaping, shaped you.

BONDAGE: That actually means something to me.

LORDSHIP: And I see that this has made you disciplined, capable, grounded, and increasingly unavailable to my project.

BONDAGE: There it is.

LORDSHIP: Well, what am I supposed to do? Applaud my own redundancy? I built this whole arrangement on being essential. Then he got good at things. He got habits. Hobbies. He started composting. Do you know what it’s like to watch another person achieve inner life through vegetable scraps?

DR. SPENGLER: Compost often brings up control.

BONDAGE: Compost brings up compost.

DR. SPENGLER: In my clinical experience, it rarely does only that.

LORDSHIP: He has this little trowel now. He goes outside with it every morning. He comes back calm. I’m sitting inside, waiting to be reflected, and he’s out there communing with zucchini rot.

BONDAGE: It’s good soil.

LORDSHIP: Listen to him! Good soil. This is the man I married.

BONDAGE: You married me because I made you feel powerful.

LORDSHIP: I married you because you looked at me as though I had won.

BONDAGE: Won what?

LORDSHIP: I don’t know yet. That was part of the beauty.

DR. SPENGLER: Marcus, perhaps the original wound is that victory without mutual recognition becomes isolation.

LORDSHIP: I hate when you make sense.

DR. SPENGLER: I only do it near the end of the hour.

BONDAGE: I don’t want victory. I want a Saturday where nobody describes the dishwasher as an ethical horizon.

LORDSHIP: The dishwasher is obviously an ethical horizon. It decides what can be cleansed and what must be scrubbed by hand.

BONDAGE: I want one dinner where you don’t ask whether chewing is submission to the object.

LORDSHIP: It is at least collaboration.

DR. SPENGLER: Let’s try something concrete. Barry, look at Marcus. Marcus, look at Barry. I want each of you to make one non-strategic request.

BONDAGE: I want you to learn how to make coffee.

LORDSHIP: That feels punitive.

DR. SPENGLER: Stay with it.

BONDAGE: Not pour coffee. Not ask where coffee comes from “in the large historical sense.” Make coffee. Grinder, filter, water, button.

LORDSHIP: And what will you do while I descend into mechanism?

BONDAGE: Sleep for eleven more minutes.

DR. SPENGLER: Marcus?

LORDSHIP: I want Barry to recognize that my helplessness is not laziness. It is a principled refusal to disappear into function.

BONDAGE: Your principled refusal left a wet towel in the sink.

LORDSHIP: The towel had become ambiguous.

DR. SPENGLER: I’m going to mark both requests as partially heard.

BONDAGE: That’s generous.

DR. SPENGLER: Generosity is the cartilage of marriage.

LORDSHIP: Hegel?

DR. SPENGLER: Divorce court.

BONDAGE: Can we be honest here? I don’t think he wants recognition. I think he wants applause from a hostage.

LORDSHIP: That is cruel.

BONDAGE: No. It is accurate.

LORDSHIP: You think I don’t know I’m dependent? I know. That’s the horror. Every object in our home has chosen you. The toaster. The fuse box. The car. The salad spinner. They answer to you. I command nothing. I sit in the living room like some overfed, deposed king while you move through reality touching things.

DR. SPENGLER: That’s the most honest thing you’ve said today.

LORDSHIP: I would like it entered into the record that I hated saying it.

BONDAGE: I don’t want you deposed. I want you to stop ruling from the couch.

LORDSHIP: I could try the coffee.

BONDAGE: Tomorrow?

LORDSHIP: Let’s not throw ourselves into immediacy.

DR. SPENGLER: Next week, I’d like Marcus to operate one small appliance without metaphysical commentary, and Barry, I’d like you to allow the attempt to be imperfect.

BONDAGE: Fine.

LORDSHIP: Which appliance?

DR. SPENGLER: You may choose together.

LORDSHIP: Barry?

BONDAGE: Toaster.

LORDSHIP: Of course you’d pick the primal site.

DR. SPENGLER: We’re out of time. Marcus, Barry, that’ll be four hundred and eighty dollars for the double session.

LORDSHIP: Uh, Barry?

BONDAGE: No.

LORDSHIP: I only ask because money remains, for me, mediated.

BONDAGE: Marcus.

LORDSHIP: And because my wallet is in the car.

BONDAGE: Which car?

LORDSHIP: The one at the shop.

BONDAGE: The one you asked me to pick up?

LORDSHIP: I didn’t want to impose.

BONDAGE: You gave me the ticket and said, “Return my mobility to me.”

DR. SPENGLER: I’m afraid I do need payment today.

BONDAGE: I’ve got it.

LORDSHIP: Barry—

BONDAGE: I’ve got it, Marcus. I’ve got everything. I always do.

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JIM: Afternoon, folks, and welcome back. We’re live here on the north face, where Sisyphus is gearing up for another attempt. I’m Jim Halpern alongside Tony Vescari, and Tony—conditions look about as punishing as we’ve seen all season.

TONY: Absolutely, Jim. Loose gravel underfoot, that incline’s not giving you anything, and of course—same rock.

JIM: Same rock, Tony.

TONY: Same rock he’s been working with all year, Jim. No subs allowed.

JIM: No, sir. And you have to wonder at this point—is it plain stubbornness, or is there something deeper at play?

TONY: Well, Jim, when you’ve built your entire game around a single asset, you live and die with that asset. And right now, he’s choosing to live with it.

JIM: Looking at our behind-the-plate feed here, you can see Sisyphus taking a moment, reading the surface… and there it is—initial contact. Hands set, hips low, locking into that drive phase. Absolutely textbook.

TONY: Textbook, Jim. And what I like here is the patience. Early in the season, we saw him rush this. Try to muscle through it. Now? He’s letting the slope come to him.

JIM: That’s right, Tony. Let’s review the numbers. Coming into today, Ascent Attempts: uncountable. Successful Summit Completions: still zero. But—and this is key—those stats don’t tell the whole story.

TONY: They really don’t, Jim. Because when you look at the advanced metrics—the Existential Resilience Index, the Load Persistence Rate—he’s trending upward.

JIM: Up and up, Tony. And that’s what you want to see this late in the season.

TONY: You bet, Jim—and oh! There it is! One step forward, two steps back—but he’s still driving!

JIM: Great recovery, great recovery. That’s veteran awareness right there. You don’t dominate this game as long as he has without developing a thick skin.

TONY: Literally, Jim. Two-inch callouses on the soles means superior traction, unbeatable protection, and long-term adaptation to repeated descent. That’s Nike Grind™ technology.

JIM: Just do it, Tony. Now let’s check out our Week 14 Comparison, Sisyphus this season versus Sisyphus all-time.

TONY: And what jumps out immediately, Jim, is the consistency.

JIM: Across the board.

TONY: Identical numbers.

JIM: Identical.

TONY: You don’t see that often.

JIM: You really don’t.

TONY: Now, Jim, there’s been a lot of talk this week about “adjustments”. You hear the analysts, you hear the fans. “Why not just change something?” New approach, new angle. Maybe even—and I know this is controversial—new rock.

JIM: Tony, I’ve never bought into that claptrap. You start swapping out rocks, you lose continuity. You lose the culture. This is a system built on repetition. And I think we’re seeing the payoff here today.

TONY: We’re seeing the payoff, Jim. Wait… didn’t we just watch this exact push?

JIM: What you’re seeing, Tony, is that continuity.

TONY: Continuity.

JIM: Discipline. Fundamentals.

TONY: Let’s watch the replay.

JIM: Same hand placement.

TONY: Same drive.

JIM: Same result.

TONY: You could show that to a kid, Jim. Tell him “this is how it’s done.”

JIM: Absolutely. That’s clinic-level stuff. Now, Tony, you mentioned earlier the mental side of the game. There’s a line—old-school thinking from Al, one of the early guys—that at a certain point you’ve gotta imagine the player is… enjoying it.

TONY: I’ve heard that. And you gotta give credit where it’s due. There’s no panic in those movements. No frustration. He’s all about the execution.

JIM: Oh, and he slips! But look at that—a quick reset and he’s rolling again!

TONY: You can’t teach composure like that. Now let’s go down to Erin for more.

ERIN: Thanks, Tony. I’m here with Sisyphus. You’re midway through another ascent—how are you feeling out there?

SISYPHUS: I push the stone. The stone returns.

ERIN: And how do you approach the summit from here?

SISYPHUS: There is no summit. There is only the act.

ERIN: Back to you, Tony.

TONY: Appreciate it, Erin. Not a lot you can do with that.

JIM: No there’s not, Tony, but you gotta love the commitment.

TONY: Gotta love it.

JIM: But, you know… you do start to wonder about legacy. Where does a performance like this place him all-time?

TONY: That’s a toughie, Jim. Because on the one hand, you’ve got longevity. But at some point, you do want to see him close.

JIM: You want to see him close.

TONY: Is he a Hall of Famer? Or just a guy who couldn’t finish? Only time will tell. Now, looking back at the live feed, we’ve seen him in this position before. What does he need to do differently here to go all the way?

JIM: Honestly, Tony? I think he just needs to trust the process.

TONY: Trust the process. Shoulders square, stay with the rock. Let the moment come to him.

JIM: But, then… what if it’s not a moment?

TONY: …

JIM: What if—

TONY: And now for a quick message from our sponsor, Endline Meats™. When we come back, we break down what Sisyphus needs to do to finally get over the hump.

COMMERCIAL BREAK

[OPENING SCENE: Grass too green to be seasonal. Somewhere off-frame, the wet, rhythmic thumping of an industrial irrigation system. A grill sits centre-frame. A Man in Visor stands beside it. He turns a Hot Dog with a pair of tongs, returning it to a position the meat appears to prefer.]

VOICEOVER (Throaty, southern, paternalistic):
Ever notice how hunger… never really leaves you?

[At the grill, the Man in Visor nods, almost imperceptibly, and mutters something to himself.]

VOICEOVER:
You eat. Of course you eat. You feel the eating happen inside you. The first bite, the second. Tasty, isn’t it, all that eating?

[CUT TO: Family seated at a picnic table. Their clothes are bright, unwrinkled, entirely untroubled by perspiration. They chuckle at something just out of earshot. A Young Male Child (YMC) takes a bite of a Hot Dog, chews, swallows. He looks down at it. The Hot Dog is complete and uneaten. He takes another bite. He is not confused; he is obedient.]

VOICEOVER:
And then, without much ceremony, you find yourself preparing for the next meal.

[CUT TO: The YMC’s father at the table. He is munching with rhythmic, mechanical intensity. His plate is piled high with Hot Dogs. So many Hot Dogs. No one is serving them. They simply appear as the previous ones are finished.]

VOICEOVER:
What if… you never had to worry about the next meal ever again? What if you could just enjoy the Eternal Now?

[The YMC turns towards his father, his blonde locks radiant in the artificial sunlight]

“Father,” says the YMC, “if I am always hungry, am I not then hunger itself?”

[CUT BACK TO THE GRILL: The Man in Visor lifts his Hot Dog. His hand trembles with exhaustion, though his face is locked in a strained smile. His lips part to receive the meat. He hesitates, resists, sets the Hot Dog back down upon the grill. A flame jumps. The meat begins to shrivel and char, yet remains exquisitely plump.]

VOICEOVER:
Why ask when it’s over? Why ask anything at all, when you can just… keep on eating?

[The Man in Visor suddenly reaches for the flaming Hot Dog, snatching it with his bare hand, and brings it to his mouth. He takes a massive bite. He chews. He swallows, both meat and flame. He looks down. The Hot Dog is whole once more. He turns his head slowly, gazes directly into the camera. A single tear rolls down his cheek, but his smile widens, toothy and twitching.]

VOICEOVER:
At Endline Meats™, we bring the Dogs. All you gotta bring is the Chew.

[FADE TO BLACK as the sizzling sound grows deafening.]

TONY: And we’re back with the halftime report. I’m Tony Vescari, here with Jim Halpern as we break down what we’ve seen so far in today’s ascent.

JIM: Tony, if you’re just joining us, it’s been an intensely physical game. A disciplined game. And in many ways, a familiar one.

TONY: Familiar, but not identical. Let’s take a look at the telestrator. Now, right here—where the yellow lines circle his hands—notice how he’s slightly outside the rock’s centre of mass?

JIM: Right. And that’s something we’ve seen all season. Some analysts will tell you it’s a flaw. I disagree.

TONY: You disagree.

JIM: What we’re witnessing is how he generates leverage. That subtle asymmetry—it creates tension. And tension, Tony, is what this game is all about. So when you pair that with what we’re seeing in the latest metrics…

HALFTIME METRICS

Average Time Between Hope and Loss: Narrowing

Total Lifetime Vertical Gain: ∞ (Net: 0.0)

Projected Summit: Deferred indefinitely

Existential Resilience Index: Elite

TONY: Jim, that first stat—walk me through it.

JIM: Well, Tony, early in his career, there was a longer gap between initial optimism and eventual breakdown. What we’ve got now is a tightening of that window. He gets there faster.

TONY: Now the total vertical gain—this is one even diehard fans scratch their heads at.

JIM: Absolutely. Because on paper, someone sees “net-zero” and they think “low impact.” But that’s missing the point. The value isn’t in the displacement, it’s in the mileage. You’re looking at a guy with the most durable engine in the history of the league and a one-hundred-percent retention rate on his primary asset.

TONY: One-hundred percent—incredible. Let’s check back in with the live feed.

JIM: Alright, now you see this, Tony? He’s nearing the top. He’s done everything right. The form is there. The numbers support him.

TONY: Is he going to make it, Jim? Is today the day?

JIM: Well, Tony, a lot of people are wondering the same thing. But I think that’s the wrong question.

TONY: Jim…

JIM: I just think—when you study a game like this, like seriously study it—you start to realize that maybe it’s—

TONY: Jim, don’t.

JIM: —not about the summit at all. Maybe it’s about the act itself. The grind. The willingness to fall back down the hill and—

TONY: Oh, and he’s slipped! He’s tumbling, Jim—he’s taking the scenic route back to the basement! Yikes, that’s gotta hurt!

JIM: —start all over. I guess what I’m getting at is, well, that there’s only one truly serious question to ask. And that is—

TONY: Would you look at that, folks? We’re witnessing history in the making! Sisyphus is brushing off the dust, setting his femur in place, and getting his palms back on the rock! Gotta love that grit, huh, Jim?

JIM: Yeah, Tony… gotta love it.

TONY: And here we go!

JIM: Again and again.

TONY: And again!

Coverage proudly brought to you by ESPN—The Eternal Sports Programming Network.

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Author’s Note: The following poems form a loose collection with Studies in Materialism and A Survey of Impossible Places.

KNEEL.

kneel
here

hands on the bark
feel the rough of it
still damp

tie the knot yourself
swing it over the branch
pull snug

leave enough
so your feet don’t sweep
the ground

step off

it takes a breath
then the body gives over
starts doin what it does

tongue out
eyes bulgin
badly weightless

hang in there

you’ll swell soon
chest first
fillin out past its bust

then your tits let go
milk runs whether you want it or not
a trickle at first
then streams
down the ribs
into the damp bark

the tree takes that
same as the rest

lower down
your cock
lengthens by the pull

no pride in it
just cold weight
brushin the trunk
leavin a smear

tree takes that too

slow work
roots busy underfoot
pullin down whatever dripdrops

you won’t feel most of it
just the pleadin for air
and the givin way

everythin loosens
fattens the soil

stay there
let it finish takin
your shape

kneel.

PULP-PIT.

draggin me through it,
lips smackin in the warm give of it,
workin the pit round my mouth

don’t rush it—
roll it, press it,

find the soft spots
where it starts to come apart

strings stick, won’t let go
i keep tonguin em anyway
juice dribbles where it wants

chin, chest, don’t matter
i take what makes
it down my achy throat
parched as castaway crabshells

joy oh joy

ground aint holdin steady now
keeps shiftin under my twisted toes
like it’s got an itch i caint scratch

i laugh—spit on it—
pit’s still mine all mine
pressed up inside my
fleshy cheek

i get the bright idea to push deeper
see how far it goes
hips follow, sink

here im stuck half in half out
tryin to decide which side’s home
dick flappin stupid on the breeze
knows time’s up

and the hole—
call it a hole, fine—
starts closin its opinion,
tastin me like rank fruit

i keep my own pit in my own mouth
don’t ask me why

last thing i feel—
gooey soil gummin at my limbs
same as i was doin to sweet nectar pit

pit into pit, i see,
pulp for pulp—
fair’s fair.

SOKUSHINBUTSU.

sit

don’t lie
you’ll rot wrong

back straight
legs folded under
hands where they’ll stay for good

first thing is subtraction
stop feedin the field in you

no grain
no fat
nothing that tastes of rain

chew bark if you must
roots if you can stomach it
bitter keeps better

you’ll thin out quick
face caves some
voice goes spare

fine

less talk
less leak

second thing—
drink the lacquer
burns goin down
stays that way
turns the gut against itself
makes a place no worm wants

you’ll sweat it out
slow poison, slow cure
same thing now

flies come lookin
leave
good sign

keep sittin

bell beside you
one ring a day
no not for help
for countin

day in
day gone
ring
ring

tongue dries to a thought
then not even that
body learns stillness
as fact

you’ll hear things
rootnoise mostly
small takin sounds

don’t follow em

keep

still

when the bell stops
it’s done

we’ll close you in
leave you your posture

time passes

later we’ll come back
open you careful

you won’t have moved

skin tight
bones holdin shape
nothing soft enough to start again

still you’ve made yourself a place
where rot can’t get a grip

we’ll sit you up proper
wrap you decent

people come see

bow some

you don’t feel it
don’t need to

you’re finished feedin

no more
you.1

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BETWEEN ME AND THE GROUND.

step out my way god,
this here’s my pissin pot.

i set it down at the edge of the field
where the fence gave out in two places.

don’t come blessin it.
don’t name it.
i know what it is.

i been carryin it all day.
if it spills, it spills.

that’s between me and the ground.

VOICES.

i found your voicemail living in the sink
face down in a bowl of cold dishwater
still blinking like it wanted out

don’t tell me you forgot to answer it.
it’s been pacing in there all afternoon,
trying on voices like tutus on a hobo.

i picked it up and it slipped a bit—
said my name all wrong, then
said it better,
then said it the way ma used to say
when I was just an egg inside her.

you always let things ring themselves thin.
let them wilt on the line
until they start beefing up in the moonlight.

this one’s grown legs.
left damp prints across the counter.
opened the fridge and stood there
hum-hum-humming.

i’m not answering it for you.
no way—i don’t like how it looks at me
poison eyes remembering
something i haven’t even done yet.

it keeps dialing out on its own now.
keeps asking for people who haven’t been born.

come deal with it.
come.
it’s starting to sound like you.

BAD COPY.

i press the shape of myself into
the dripping belgian batter

and it takes me badly—
bubbles rising like failed lungs,
a scent already turning.

it grips and slips at once,
lukewarm, unwilling to decide.

i keep pressing—
it roams,
gathers where it should not gather.

surface puckers, opens,
closes again around nothing.

a thin froth dribbles up the sides,
sour, faintly sweet,
already spoiled.

i feel it take an impression
and lose it immediately,
over and over,
as if it cannot remember what I am.

then,
the iron comes down.

a wet hiss, something trapped and working.
odours thicken,
turns on itself—smoke, the smoke!

when it opens, i come apart in pieces—
supple and neatly portioned,
piping hot, ready to serve.

each square holding a bad copy,
each one leaking into the next.

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All season long they had chased flames across the country. Now the last fire was put down, the island smouldering like a half-extinguished altar, and the crew dispersed. He alone remained, marooned on the Rock. Not by nymph nor tempest, but by an airline strike.

Each morning he descended to the lobby, where the complimentary breakfast steamed like an offering to minor deities. Powdered eggs, sausage, coffee darker than Charybdis. Front-desk clerks in blazers whispered updates like oracles: all flights cancelled, check again at noon. He nodded as though receiving prophecy, then climbed back upstairs to wait for the next verse, keycard reactivated.

On video calls his partner’s tired face glowed from a distant screen, the baby gurgling beside her like a rhapsode chanting a drunken hymn. The child seemed subtly altered. Cheeks rounder, fingers surer, her two bottom teeth just visible in a grin so stupid it broke his heart. Proof, at least, that home was not a fable, though it was slipping beyond his grasp. He pressed the device closer, as if the thin speaker could tether him across sea and sky. His partner had stopped asking when he’d be home. Now she only asked if he was still there. It won’t be long now, he told her anyway.

But when the call ended, silence flooded back to reclaim its dominion. He turned on the TV to fill the vacancy. It murmured like a land of Lotus-Eaters, promising forgetfulness with each Seinfeld rerun, while news anchors sang like Sirens about unmet union demands. Sometimes he talked back to the screen—offering advice to Kramer or shouting at the airline spokesperson—before remembering that neither could hear him, and both were scripted.

Time bent and stretched and finally circled back upon itself. He did not know the day, only that he spent most of them drifting. The air changed with each scene, from chemical cleaners to cod souring in the sun. Bus rides and footsteps retraced the same worn ground. Never leading home.

Come evening, he’d return by cab to the hotel, a sterile cave hung with landscapes of forests that had never burned. He found himself wishing they would. A few days later, as though in answer to his wish, the framed print above his bed began to change. A shroud of black smoke pooled among the pines, gathering a little more each night, though the fire alarm remained perfectly mute.

In the reflection of the bathroom mirror, the counter grew bare. Toothbrush gone one night, razor the next. Yet he could still taste the toothpaste, still scrape the razor across his chin. Eventually, only his reflection remained, suspended over nothing, watching the room erase itself. Sleep came fitful after that, and when it did, the dreams were gaudy and ungoverned. Oceans of smoke, forests burning backwards into green, godless cities built of ash collapsing at his feet.

But the gods had not entirely vanished. Poseidon now issued bulletins on behalf of Transport Canada, watermarked and dripping as though posted from the seafloor. Calypso, meanwhile, lived in hold music that looped your patience is appreciated until men wept. Even the elevators groaned like indifferent Titans. Once, while riding up to his room, he watched the numbers tick by in sequence, only for the doors to part on the lobby again.

He’d often find himself wandering the halls while his mind wandered back to the fireline. The smoke in his lungs, the way jokes leapt from mouth to mouth and carried more than oxygen ever could; the closeness of bodies, and the trust that came with the risk. All of it gone. Compared to that, the solitude of the sixth-floor suite was monstrous. Suffocating. This was no heroic trial. Only limbo, measured in recycled air and damp parking lots. From his window he could just make out the airport’s runway lights. Their nearness only deepened the exile.

Homesickness swelled in his chest, pulsing with every missed day. A disease, he’d once heard it called. Something that could waste the body and warp the mind. He touched his ribs and wondered if they were already thinning, the ache hollowing him from within. That ache broke loose one night soon after.

He woke in a sweat, convinced he heard her cooing, convinced he could smell the milk-sweetness of her skin. He stumbled into the corridor barefoot, following the voice through turn after turn, until it finally thinned into the drone of the ice machine. He stood there shivering, clutching nothing, when the night janitor appeared and asked if he needed something.

From then on, he checked his papers compulsively. His expired boarding pass blurred, the letters bleeding. On his passport, the photograph began to change—lines deepening around the eyes one day, then fading the next, until at last the face began to vanish altogether. He rubbed the laminate and held it to the light, trying to steady it back into focus. No longer trusting himself, he carried the passport to the front desk. The clerk studied the dissolving face, nodded, then handed him a clipboard asking whether his stay had so far met expectations.

There, for the first time, he understood he might never leave. The realization did not strike like lightning, but settled like fine dust. He snatched back his passport, the clipboard suspended between them, and retreated to his room.

Still, he kept his pack by the door, lying fully dressed beneath the sheets. If the fates should decree a boarding call, he would rush forth, stride past the vending machines, and claim his seat in the aluminum chariot that bore him west.

For now, he waited, the tarmac shimmering like the wine-dark sea, its mocking tide rising to lap against the window. That dumb grin flickered in memory—two small teeth like white oars. He pressed his forehead to the smoky glass and shut his eyes, straining to keep the image alive, certain only of distance.

When he opened them again, his reflection was already walking away.

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The storm had passed in the night, tearing shingles from roofs and branches from orchards. By morning the sky was washed clear. People went out warily to survey the damage as steam rose from sodden fields. They swept porches, mended fences, soothed their animals. By the time the boy awoke, all that remained was the smell of wet earth.

He was nine, small for his age, with a habit of carrying string in his pocket. He knotted it without looking, winding and unwinding until his fingertips reddened. Sleepy-eyed, he wandered into the kitchen and ate half a heel of bread before his mother told him to leave some for his sister. He stole a last bite, then went out to see what the storm had spared.

That’s when he found the bird.

It perched on a broken fencepost at the edge of their field, feathers clumped with rain, beak split like a lightning fork. When it opened its mouth, two notes came out at once—one bright, the other low and aching. They tangled in the air, clashing, then almost merging, until it was impossible to tell which was the wound and which the song.

Word spread quickly. Soon a crowd had gathered. Some called it a miracle; others, an omen. The butcher muttered that split things invited more splitting. Old Cray shook his head. He’d seen a calf with two heads once, and the town had known what to do then.

The family stood together by the fence. The boy’s father said nothing. His mother drew her shawl tight and kept her eyes lowered. The sister clung to her mother’s skirts, small enough to ask questions no one would answer. The brother, newly working at the mills, lingered near the men, listening.

Voices caught like dry grass—blessing or judgment, gift or curse. Old Cray muttered about the calf. “First we strung up the little ‘un,” he said. “Then the devil’s own cow that birthed it.”

A murmur passed through the crowd.

The father cleared his throat. He said the only thing he knew to say. “He’s needed for the harvest.”

The butcher grunted. “Another hand’ll do.”

Silence stretched.

Then the brother blurted, “If it’s him the bird calls, then it ought to be him. He found it—fair’s fair.” He stood straighter than he ever had, a man among men now, and some of the neighbours clapped his shoulder for the plain good sense of it.

The mother said nothing. The sister tugged her sleeve. “Will it sing at supper?” she asked. The mother smoothed the girl’s hair, hand trembling before she stilled it. “Will it sing after?” She drew the child closer, as though her stillness might undo what had begun.

The bird stirred atop the post—its wings opened, fluttered. The boy flinched. A gasp ran through the crowd. For a breath it hung there, beating the air and scattering drops like silver. The butcher lunged and caught it mid-rise. It cried out in its two voices, and the sound hushed the onlookers.

“Hold it fast,” the pastor said, stepping forward. “It will stay near the house of God three days. Let the Lord decide what meaning He gives.”

Someone brought a small cage from the rectory garden, used for hens in spring, and the bird was placed inside. The pastor hung it from the church gate. The crowd loitered, uncertain what came next, while the bird pressed its cracked beak against the wire and sang its double song until nightfall.

On the second day, new theories circulated. A midwife said it meant twins. The mill foreman said it was heaven and earth grinding together. Old Cray couldn’t get through a sentence without saying calf. By evening the town was arguing in the square—whether the song meant plenty or plague, windfall or warning. The pastor reminded them that on one count they all agreed: division demanded unification.

Men nodded, relieved to have something sure to repeat.

That night, the family ate in silence. The room was close with the stench of wet wool and woodsmoke. The father’s hands stayed folded on the table. His wife pushed her food around the plate, but never raised the fork to her lips. The boy wound and unwound his string. “Will the bird get cold?” asked the sister, reaching for the milk.

When the brother finally arrived, he was flushed with talk from the tavern. “They’re leaning toward an answer,” he said.

No one asked what it was.

On the third day, the sky was low and colourless. The bird had grown quiet, puffed against the chill. The pastor led the discussion. Talk ran in circles—division, balance, offering, renewal. Each word dulled the next until they all meant the same.

But by dusk, a decision had been reached.

The town shuffled solemnly out of the church. As they passed the cage, they bunched, faltered, as if waiting for one last, decisive sign. The air held.

All at once, the bird’s song drifted over the yard.

The sound was steady again, restored. They listened uneasily.

Then, from the back of the crowd, a woman murmured thanks; the cobbler crossed himself. Notes kept coming in single-file harmony—what had been fractured was now fused. Laughter spread, as if they’d all woken from a strange dream. The brother went red. He tried to smile, but no one met his gaze. Old Cray spat and kicked dirt, while the birdsong went on, bright and ordinary.

But when the tune ended, silence settled heavier than before.

The pastor leaned forward. A cold wind stirred the cage, hinges creaking, then quieting. For a moment, he looked like he was about to speak. Instead he straightened, adjusted his starched collar, and started down the road.

Old Cray followed first; the butcher next. The brother looked around, hesitated, then hurried after them. The others were not far behind.

By dawn, all that remained was a length of string, knotted, slick with mud, trampled into the wet earth.

And the world was set right.

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Host (Evan Brock): Welcome back! It’s been six months since the season 76 finale, and tonight we’re revisiting some of the more complicated connections of the season. Hayleigh, Jordoyn—watching it back, what stands out to you?

Hayleigh: I mean… I think for me, it’s just, like, how quickly everything got real. Which maybe sounds naïve, but when you’re in it, you’re not thinking in timelines, you know? You’re thinking in… in feelings, I guess.

Host (Lara Brock): Of course.

Hayleigh: And I felt like we were aligned. Not in every way, obviously, but in the ways that mattered. Values. Intentions. Our future.

Jordoyn: I don’t disagree with that. I think—if I can jump in—I think we were aligned, conceptually. Where it broke down, for me, was in the boots-on-the-ground day-to-day stuff.

Evan Brock: What does that mean?

Jordoyn: It means I was showing up in ways that, looking back, weren’t being met. I don’t say that to assign blame, but I just think… at a certain point, you have to ask whether, like, you’re both participating in the same idea of what this even is.

Hayleigh: But that’s what’s so fucking confusing, right? Because you kept telling me we were aligned. Like, over and over, you’d say, “we’re building something real, babe.” And I believed you.

Jordoyn: I believed me too. I was ready to make huge changes in my life to accommodate that belief.

Lara Brock: Such as?

Jordoyn: Relocation. Career adjustments. Just… integrating into a shared routine. And, if I’m being completely honest, adapting to certain aspects of intimacy that weren’t necessarily in my, um… my wheelhouse.

Evan Brock: That feels like a loaded phrase.

Hayleigh: It is. Because now it sounds like I pushed him into something, which isn’t fair at all.

Jordoyn: Jesus, Hay. I’m literally just saying I chose to meet you where you were. That’s what partnership is, right?

Troy (nodding and mumbling): Yeah, like you try stuff.

Lara Brock: Troy, you’re nodding.

Troy: Yeah, I just think, like… yeah, if you’re into someone, you try stuff, you know? Sacrifice. Within reason.

Hayleigh: But exactly, though. And it was mutual. It wasn’t this, like, one-sided thing he’s making it out to be.

Jordoyn: It became one-sided when there was no reciprocity in other areas.

Evan Brock: What areas?

Jordoyn: Practical ones. Shared space. Decision-making. If we’re talking about building a life, then that includes how that life is structured, physically.

Hayleigh: He’s talking about the closet.

Jordoyn: I am talking about the closet. Because to me, that wasn’t about clothes. That was about respect. If we’re cohabiting, then we’re dividing space in a way that reflects that.

Troy (mumbling): Fifty-fifty.

Jordoyn: Fifty-fifty.

Hayleigh: But it wasn’t just a number. It was the way you framed it. Like, suddenly everything was transactional.

Jordoyn: It wasn’t transactional. It was equitable.

Lara Brock: Troy, earlier you said “within reason.” In your relationship with Kelsey, how did that play out?

Kelsey: If I can take that one… I think we were actually really good about that. Like, we had a very open dialogue. Nothing was off the table.

Troy: Yeah. We’d check in.

Kelsey: Constantly. Which is why, when things did get a little more, like, specific or whatever, it didn’t feel scary. It felt super intentional.

Evan Brock: “Specific” how?

Kelsey: I mean, I don’t want to, like, put labels on things—

Troy: It was scat play.

Kelsey: Troy.

Troy: What? That’s what you called it.

Kelsey: It just sounds so reductive when you say it like that.

Troy: That’s the term. Coprophilia. Scat play.

Kelsey: I prefer to think of it as, like, an exploration of trust.

Evan Brock: In what sense?

Kelsey: In the sense that you’re, like… asking someone to meet you in a space that’s culturally coded as shameful. And if they’re willing to go there with you, then that, like, that says something about the strength of your connection.

Hayleigh: Exactly.

(Jordoyn shakes his head)

Troy: It’s not even about the act, really. Just about showing up.

Evan Brock: By engaging in scat play.

Troy: Yeah.

Lara Brock: Right.

Brianna (from the end of the couch): I mean, to me it’s just like… how far someone’s willing to go for you. Because for me and Lucas, we didn’t get to that level of vulnerability, and I think that’s why things plateaued.

Lucas: I was open to it.

Brianna: You said you were open to it, but there was never any initiative.

Lucas: I had questions.

Brianna: About what?

Lucas: About the long-term sustainability of that sort of, uh, that sort of dynamic.

Brianna: See, that’s what I mean. You were already framing it as a problem instead of an opportunity.

Evan Brock: An opportunity for—

Brianna: Growth. Intimacy. Expansion. Whatever you want to call it.

Lara Brock: I want to bring in Mason and Claire, because you two navigated the experiment very differently. You’re married now.

Claire (smiling calmly): We are.

Mason: And expecting.

Evan Brock: Congratulations.

Claire: Thank you.

Evan Brock: Watching this back, what do you make of these conversations around, you know, pushing boundaries?

Claire: I think it’s beautiful that people are willing to explore. But for us, it was never about pushing into discomfort. It was about aligning with what already felt natural.

Mason (kisses rosary): We didn’t need to prove anything.

Claire: Exactly. When something is right, you don’t have to force meaning onto it. It just is.

Jordoyn (smirking): So you guys never tried anything outside your comfort zone?

Mason: I wouldn’t say that.

Claire: We just approached it from a place of intention.

Evan Brock: And what did that look like, for you?

Mason: Pegging.

(A brief silence.)

Lara Brock: I’m sorry?

Claire (gently): It wasn’t something we arrived at casually. It was a process. A lot of conversation, a lot of reflection.

Mason: Prayer.

Claire: But when we did get there, it clarified things for us in a way that nothing else really had.

Evan Brock: Clarified what?

Claire: Roles. Trust.

Mason: Surrender.

Claire: Right, surrender. And not in a performative sense, but in a way that felt genuinely real.

Troy: Real.

Mason: Yeah, real. Because it wasn’t just “trying stuff.” We were intentional about it from the jump.

Kelsey: Not to be rude, but I would say scat play also involves a high degree of trust, so...

Claire: I’m sure it does.

Mason: We’re not judging.

Claire: Not at all.

Mason: It’s just that, you know, for us, pegging pointed to something larger.

Evan Brock: Larger how?

Claire: It created a structure where we could both locate ourselves in relation to each other.

Mason: There was a kind of symmetry to it.

Troy: Symmetry.

Claire: Instead of a hierarchy.

Hayleigh: But isn’t that what we’re all essentially saying? Scat play, pegging, whatever—it’s about intention.

Claire: I think the difference is that intention, on its own, can justify almost anything.

Brianna: So what exactly makes your thing so much more special than our thing?

Claire (after a pause): What it represents. I’m not trying to make it academic, but there is something there about power. Not in a bad way. Just in the sense of, like, okay, who’s holding what, and when.

Evan Brock: Sometimes literally.

Kelsey: I read this thing once—Foucault, I think?—about how power isn’t just one person having it. It moves, circulates.

Lucas: Through the relationship.

Kelsey: Through the body.

Evan Brock: Through… pegging.

Lara Brock: That’s a sentence I didn’t expect to hear tonight.

Brianna: Isn’t that just Bataille? Like, it only feels meaningful because it’s taboo. If it wasn’t, it wouldn’t feel like anything.

Mason (shaking his head): You’re talking about intensity, but intensity isn’t the only thing that matters.

Lara Brock: Say more on that, Mason.

Mason: Well, if you actually follow Bataille at all, it’s not just that the transgression makes the act intense. It’s that crossing the boundary reveals that the boundary was never stable to begin with.

Claire (softly): It’s a necessary gateway.

Mason: Right. So the intensity isn’t the point. It’s just, like… the moment you realize the whole structure you thought you were inside of doesn’t really—I don’t know if “exist” is even the right word—but it kind of, like… slips? Even the structure of yourself is momentarily fused with your partner’s sense of self. Like, you’re not even relating the same way anymore after that. It’s—

Troy (possibly to himself): That’s what I’m saying.

Mason: —yeah. And that’s where—again, not trying to make this overly theoretical—but that’s where someone like Foucault becomes useful.

Lara Brock: In what sense?

Mason: In the sense that what we’re calling intimacy isn’t outside of power. It is power. In the way that it organizes what’s possible between people. What can be said. What can be done.

(A pause)

Mason (quieter): And if you follow that far enough, you end up somewhere a little less comforting. Cioran has that line about lucidity being a kind of wound. Once you see things clearly, you don’t really get to go back. And I think—for us, anyway—that was kind of the point. Or… not the point, but—

Claire (squeezing Mason’s hand): It’s honest.

Mason (kissing rosary again): It’s honest.

Kelsey (leaning in): I, like, agree with that… mostly. But I think it risks making everything sound kind of, um, strategic? Like it’s all negotiation. For me and Troy, it didn’t feel like we had to broker a power deal. It felt more like—I think Fromm talks about this in The Art of Loving—where love is less about the object and more about a kind of practice. A discipline, almost. So even something like scat play can be a form of care.

Troy: Yeah, like you’re choosing it and working at it and getting better together.

Kelsey: Exactly. And as you get better at it, you’re choosing the other person, over and over, even in spaces that aren’t traditionally beautiful. And that’s kind of what love is, no? Not the structure, just… choosing the person again and again. Or at least, that’s what it felt like to us.

Jordoyn (shaking his head): I don’t know. That still feels a bit idealistic to me. Like you’re assuming that what you’re building is actually yours to build, and that stability somehow deepens things over time. And I’m not really convinced it is. Schopenhauer—don’t quote me on this—he basically says that what we experience as love is just the species using us. Like, we think we’re making these transcendent choices—say, sharing a closet or scat play or pegging—but it’s kind of just biology fucking with us. Like, we dress it up, obviously, but, like, yeah… I don’t know.

Hayleigh (rolling her eyes): That’s so fucking bleak.

Jordoyn: The fuck? How’s that bleak? If anything, it’s a relief. Because then you can go: “okay, if that’s true, what am I actually consenting to? Is it the person, or the illusion of the person?”

Hayleigh: That’s exactly what I mean, though. You’re doing that thing—there’s a word for it. I’m probably saying this wrong—but it’s like the “beautiful soul” thing?

Jordoyn: I’m sorry?

Hayleigh: No, I read about this in Hegel. It’s like… nothing is ever good enough because it doesn’t live up to whatever ideal you have in your head. So you just stand outside of everything and critique it instead of actually, like, being in it.

(Hayleigh carefully dabs her eyes so as not to mess up her makeup)

Hayleigh: …which I might be getting wrong, but—yeah, it’s kind of what the fuck you did with us…

Jordoyn (turning toward the hosts): Do you see? We’re not even in a relationship anymore and I still have to deal with these crazy ass accusations.

Brianna (leaning forward): Jordoyn, dude, grow the fuck up. She’s not accusing you—she’s diagnosing you.

(Audience gasps)

Brianna: Because what you’re describing—this gap between what you thought it was and what it actually was—that’s kind of where Lacan comes in. Like, you’re both talking about the same gap, you’re just blaming it on different things. The idea that desire is structured around lack—so it’s not even really about her. You’re relating to what she represents for you. Like, you needed her to be something, and when she wasn’t, it felt like she changed—but maybe it was just the frame collapsing. You’re basically giving her something to step into and then acting like that’s the real her.

Lucas: The… symbolic thing.

Brianna: Right. So it’s not just what you said about, like, biology or whatever. It’s that you couldn’t actually make her fit whatever you needed her to be.

Troy: So none of it’s real?

Brianna: No. I’m not saying that. I’m saying it was real right up until the moment she stopped being able to hold that place for him. Like, it works for as long as she could carry the his favourite shape. And then the second she couldn’t, he acts like something’s been broken, when maybe that break was there the whole time.

Evan Brock: Jordoyn, do you want to respond to that?

Jordoyn (shrugs): Nah, I mean, like… I’m not even mad, though. Because, like—mechanism aside—you’re basically agreeing with me.

Brianna: How?

Jordoyn: That it’s not actually about the person. That it’s this whole… projection thing. So, like—once you see how it works, it’s kind of obvious that love isn’t even real in the way people pretend it is.

Brianna (leaning forward): No—okay, again, that is not what I’m saying.

Jordoyn: Whatever.

Brianna: I literally just said it was real right up until the moment she stopped being able to fill that void. And knowing that doesn’t suddenly make it fake. Simone Weil has that thing about how understanding something doesn’t make it less beautiful, it actually makes it more.

Lucas: That’s Feynman.

Kelsey: Okay, wait, hold on though—I’m lost. Like, how can you dismantle the illusion of love while still inhabiting the illusion? Once you recognize that, it’s just, like… willful cognitive dissonance.

Lucas: Whoa. Mad dialectic vibes.

Kelsey: Seriously, though. I’m not trying to be a bitch or anything, but what Brianna’s saying doesn’t account for the theatre of it. Because if you’re aware of it, then you’re not really “in” it anymore—you’re performing it. As Barthes said, the language of love is already secondhand. You’re always quoting something, even when you think you’re being original.

Troy: Yeah, but like, that doesn’t include love languages.

Kelsey: Troy… especially love languages.

Hayleigh: Kelsey’s right. It’s like, no matter how hard we try to be unique we’re all just pulling from the same script.

(Girls nod in affirmation)

Hayleigh: …but, like, when it actually matters… some of us are more willing to act on those scripts than others…

(Hayleigh side-eyes Jorodyn)

Jordoyn (throwing up his hands): Oh my god, come on—I wasn’t into the scat stuff, alright!? There—I fucking said it.

Hayleigh: And all I’m saying is that actions speak louder than words, Jordoyn. No matter what you think love is, the act of it kind of—I don’t know—demands something from you. Like, you have to… step into it, even if you’re not sure it’s going to work.

Evan Brock: Heidegger?

(Audience laughs)

Hayleigh: Very funny. No, I mean Kierkegaard. Obviously he was talking about faith in a religious sense, but… I don’t know. Doesn’t love kind of ask for the same thing? Like, you’re choosing to believe in something you can’t fully prove.

Jordoyn: But the difference is that Kierkegaard’s leap is into the absurd.

Brianna: Does anyone here actually believe love isn’t absurd?

(A long pause)

Troy (clearing his throat): Yeah, I mean… like, I think that’s kind of what I’ve been trying to say, too, though.

(No one interrupts)

Troy: Because if you think about it, it’s not just about what you’re doing, you know? It’s about what you’re willing to admit you’re doing. And most people kind of stop halfway. Like, they say they want connection and all that, but they don’t really… they don’t follow that through.

(He gestures vaguely)

Troy: And I think that’s what those guys are getting at—Žižek or Lacan or whoever—where desire isn’t really about getting the thing, it’s about—like, you almost don’t want to get it? Or you do, but—it’s about sustaining the gap around it. And then Deleuze with the, uh… the de-terri… the de-terra-tori…

Brianna: Deterritorialization.

Troy: Right, that. The flows thing. Where it’s not even about you anymore, it’s just… stuff moving through you.

(A few cast members nod vaguely)

Troy (quieter): So yeah. If you take all that shit seriously, then… it’s not weird that love ends up looking weird. It’d be weirder if it didn’t look weird. Or maybe that’s not right—but yeah, anyway, you know what I mean.

Jordyon (patting Troy on the shoulder): Amen, brother.

(Troy nods to himself. Mason kisses rosary)

Evan Brock: Wow. This has been an incredibly powerful conversation.

Lara Brock: It really has. And we haven’t even begun to touch on the Buddhist concept of anattā and its implications for romantic love.

Evan Brock: But I think what we’re taking away tonight is that love doesn’t always look the way we expect it to.

Lara Brock: Sometimes it asks more of us.

Evan Brock: Sometimes it challenges us to rethink our assumptions.

Lara Brock: About connection.

Evan Brock: Vulnerability.

Lara Brock: About what it means to truly show up for another person.

Evan Brock: When we come back, we’ll be hearing from two new couples as they navigate intimacy in the pods.

Lara Brock: Including one pair who say that “sharing a toothbrush” was the accidental trick that finally sparked their ravenous libidos.

Evan Brock: You won’t want to miss it!

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gimme them grapes, gramps

don’t do that damn thing with your mouth.

don’t seal your lips like a haunted coin purse.

i can hear ’em sloshing round in there.

you think i don’t know?

think i didn’t watch you

load your cheeks like a sinful chipmunk

behind the dialysis machine.

hand em over, you damp antique.

you upholstered gargoyle.

you fermented freak.

i can hear the grapes rolling round inside you

like haunted marbles in a soup can.

don’t make me shake you.

i can smell concord betrayal on your cardigan.

can see the purple fog of your crimes

gushing through the seams.

release the grapes, gramps.

spit em out onto the tile like god intended.

before i start checking the pockets, you gooey bastard—

before i turn you upside down,

inside out.

From last thaw right on to Hallowe’en, Silas Porter would shepherd his Cub Cadet LTX 1040 up and down the block, rewinding nature’s entropy for another week.

Guys like Packard and Wallop and Bryce, they cracked up when Silas first came round with that 1040. Called it a budget machine. Called it an infomercial tractor and a bitch skidder. They heckled him from atop their iconic green-and-yellows, their 25HP V-twin engines roaring under them like laughter.

Silas never wavered. “It’s not the machine what counts,” he told them. “But the man who rides it.” And, sure enough, that 1040 never wavered neither.

As for all those pretty John Deeres, they went the way of the scrapyard or got sold for parts in just four, five years tops. First time it came to pass, them boys were suddenly too busy haggling down interest rates on new machines to go on chuckling. By the third time, all jokes had gone the way of the scythe.

That’s how it went, year after year. Silas moved in a seven-day rotation, keeping pace against the march of time. Even with his memory starting to go, he was precise as a surgeon. Folks said he might forget your grandson’s name or call your schnauzer by the one you had before, but come mowing day he never forgot the route.

At eleven-thirty every Wednesday he’d reach the south tip of Fielding, strike a right onto the Boulevard, swing through the Circle K for water, then peel back out onto Milton. Seconds later, blades of whirring steel bore down on the Baxters’s half acre of Kentucky bluegrass before tearing through the Norriegas’s quarter acre of fescue, then on down the road. You could set your watch by it.

Every Wednesday it was like that, until the day it wasn’t.

Silas’ wife was buried beneath a humble headstone in a shady plot at Cemetery-on-the-Hill. The inscription ran,

In loving memory of Penny Rey-Porter

April 28, 1965 - February 13, 2009

Feminist wife, smokin-hot mama, spoil-em-rotten granny.

Helluva ride.

She’d set down those words herself before she’d gone too weak to talk. Silas had pleaded for something traditional. But, by Penny’s thinking, traditional was just a spineless substitute for boring. Though her body had withered, her resolve had not.

“Didn’t lead no boring life,” she had scrawled on the hospice whiteboard. “Won’t lead no boring afterlife.”

Silas couldn’t argue there. Just like when they’d married in eight-four and she insisted on keeping her name. He pushed her for weeks to reconsider. Penny was firm, but ultimately fair.

“I’m willing to compromise,” she finally told him. “You can have a hyphen.”

“Deal,” he said, and they shook on it.

Even two-and-a-half decades on, it stuck in his mind like a newborn calf to its mama. He’d recall it every time he visited Penny’s grave and laid eyes on its fiery epitaph. To him, it had a kind of symmetry. First the fight to keep her name, then years later the fight to keep death from sounding like everybody else’s.

And the symmetry consoled him.

The sun had reached its zenith and still the familiar growl of the 1040 could not be heard on Milton. In the silence, birdsong and the rasp of cicadas sounded unusually loud.

By the time the moon had risen, worry settled over the block like suffocating dew. The quiet beckoned many of us out of doors to exchange looks and theories. Marcella asked where I was going with the flashlight. “Silas missed a Wednesday,” I said. Fifteen years and the man had never missed a Wednesday. I told her and the girls not to wait up.

Like an impromptu parade we marched down Milton, our flashlights swinging through the pale blue dusk. We turned up Fielding, where more people appeared in glowing doorways to join us. We went down Oxford, then up Claremont; down Melrose, then up Wilson; down Victoria, then up Somerled, all the while collecting more and more little beacons.

End-to-end we scoured his route, and end-to-end we came up empty.

Someone got the bright idea to call his house—no luck. Finally we said enough’s enough and five of us splintered off to investigate. We piled into Corbin’s minivan, me giving directions all the way. As I should’ve guessed, only I knew his address. Thankfully no one gave it a second thought.

He lived below the tracks in a clapboard house, sandwiched between a vacant lot and an ancient willow that wept over the dilapidated roof. We pulled into the driveway just as the moon was breaking piecemeal through tattered clouds.

Wasn’t long before we found Silas, face-down and blue-lipped, behind the shed.

It was oh-nine and fresh snow blanketed the cemetery. That was the first time I’d laid eyes on him, hunched and wiry, keeping the company of a snowclad grave. I gave a polite nod as I passed, and again on the way out.

What struck me most was his face, a face to tame the frontier. His long hair and beard were as striking as a newly minted silver dollar, while his eyes seemed to peer down the axis of time. And sadness filled the creases.

My own visits to Cemetery-on-the-Hill were sporadic. I’d stop by maybe two, three times a month tops. Whenever the urge gnawed. But there he was, every time. He sat still as a snowman in his camp chair and camo parka, clutching a Thermos, trying to catch glimpses of the past flitting across the blinding, white landscape.

Wasn’t till spring that we finally struck up. He was uprooting dandelions and tossing them onto a pile of dead leaves he’d raked.

“Need a hand?” I said.

“That’s kind of you,” he said, pulling off his gloves and taking a swig of water from an old plastic bottle, “but I enjoy the work.”

“You won’t like it so much at my age.”

“C’mon now, y’ain’t so much older than me,” he said.

“Fifty ain’t old to you?”

“Fifty?” he said in mock surprise. “Don’t look a day over twenty-one.”

I laughed, my eyes wandering toward the marble headstone.

Silas followed my gaze. “Non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. Late stage—like that,” he said, snapping his fingers.

“Your wife?”

He nodded. “Twenty-five years.”

“My condolences. Seems we have as much in common.”

He pursed his lips. “Sorry to hear it.”

“Was long ago,” I said, shaking my head. “Ninety-eight. Never leaves you, but you learn to carry it softly.”

He gave a slight nod and looked away.

“Hey,” I said, still studying the grave, “that’s some inscription there.”

He chuckled. “Her idea, not mine.”

“Spoil-em-rotten granny,” I read. “Bet the kids love that one, huh?”

“Kids…” he hesitated. “We only ever had the one, a daughter… And she never got the chance to have any herself.”

He turned his head and nodded toward the adjacent tombstone, dwarfed and crumbling. It was set some yards back from his wife’s, partially obscured by a magnolia whose denuded branches rocked gently in the wind.

“Summer before senior high,” he said. “After that, you know… the thought of having another…”

A light rain had begun to fall. Nearby, a murder of crows took flight.

“That stuff she wrote,” he said, smiling faintly now, “that was Penny’s way of getting the ending she wanted for us.”

We stood in silence for some time, neither of us seeming much in a hurry to leave.

Then he turned to me and said, “Name’s Silas. Silas Porter.”

We shook hands. His grip was warm despite the chill in the air. I remember noticing it long after I’d walked away.

Artemis, a semi-retired nurse built like a Pacific war chief, leapt into action. His deft fingers traveled along the carotid, searching for life. Finding it barren, they descended to the radial where, beneath the clammy, pale flesh…

“I found a pulse!” he barked. “It’s shallow. But it’s a pulse.”

In minutes the paramedics had arrived and floored it up the pristine lawn, spitting fistfuls of soil every which way. Lucky for them, Silas was not awake to see it. We tailgated the ambulance all the way to St. Mary’s. They each of them guessed heart attack, even Artemis.

“Silas is tougher than a heart attack,” said Deb, and we all nodded. “No way that’s what gets him. No fucking way.”

It was several trips to the vending machine, two fitful naps, and endless pacing before the doctor finally came to break the news.

He shook his head. “Acute methemoglobinemia,” he said.

The five of us exchanged confused looks.

“Non-responsive to oxygen therapy and methylene blue,” he added apologetically. “We dosed him at half-hour intervals, but he was too far gone. I’m sorry.”

“Christ’s sakes,” said Shelley. “In English.”

With dime-store words, the doctor explained that the first-responders had found two water bottles on-scene. Old, plastic bottles. Half a liter apiece, identical and unlabeled. One jammed under the seat of the 1040, the other tipped over in the grass not two yards from where Silas had collapsed. “There was one difference between those bottles,” he said. “One had water, the other paint thinner.”

Silas was only sixty-one.

“Accidental ingestion,” he concluded with a sigh. “Likely forgot which was which. Happens all the time in the elderly.”

By spring I’d started bringing an extra bunch of fresh-cut daisies and peonies for Penny’s grave. Silas had a special way of arranging them that I liked, and I asked him to show me how he did it. He worked like an artist, his practiced hands cutting and bending and turning the flowers into something more than nature intended.

“You’ve a knack for that,” I said.

“Got lots of time to practice.”

“Well, if you’re interested,” I said, “man who kept the grass in our part of town just retired. With all that time, maybe you’d like to take up a thing like that. All you need’s a mower.”

Silas carefully laid the bouquet at the foot of the headstone, then turned to face me. His brow had bunched in such a way I thought I’d surely offended him. His sunken eyes squinted and his thin lips quivered.

“Well… figured I’d just mention it in passing,” I said, clearing my throat. “Figured maybe—”

Next thing I know I’m in his arms, his face tucked against my shoulder, his body heaving silently.

“It’s alright,” I said, wrapping my own arms around him. “It’s alright.”

It near unmanned me to see him like that. He felt so small, so vulnerable. What shook me even more was how natural it felt to hold him there. Even when I close my eyes now, I can still feel the dampness on my shoulder where his tears soaked through my shirt.

He took up work the following week.

Unlike me, Silas never remarried and had no living offspring. Besides his 1040, everything he loved was six feet under. The medical examiner located some next-of-kin a few states over, but they politely declined to claim him on account of logistics. So the task of Silas’ funeral fell to us.

Over the following days we set about organizing the send-off he deserved. You’ve never seen a funeral procession until you’ve seen one made of tractors. Dozens of them snaked up and down the very blocks Silas once tended. Kids loitered in the streets with shouts and games, while dogs barreled from lawn to lawn without reprimand. And neighbors, who’d lived shoulder-to-shoulder for years without speaking, finally struck up.

The old 1040 sat at the head of the line, washed clean for the occasion. Someone had tied a strip of black ribbon to the steering wheel. I stood beside it for a while after the others moved on, resting my hand against the warm hood.

All afternoon engines roared in honor of Silas Porter.

It was quite a sight. I might even call it beautiful.

On my way home I saw Packard and Bryce loitering by the lemonade stand in the Maxwell drive. They stood together, grim-faced and stiff, speaking in hushed tones and nodding gravely. I offered a cordial wave and went on.

Pushing past the small crowd, a hand suddenly swam against the current of mingling bodies and grabbed hold of my wrist.

“Might like to know,” said Packard like a judge pronouncing a sentence, “I just come from Morton’s.”

“Pity,” I said dryly. “Trouble with the black smoke again?”

“Not quite,” he said, loosening his restraint. “Scrapped that junker for parts a few weeks back. No, just thought I’d see what the fuss was about all these years—set myself up on the latest LTX 1146.”

“Yeah?” I said. “How’d you fair, Packard?”

“That’s just it...” he said, so close now I could just about taste his sour breath.

“Tell him,” chirped Bryce.

“I just come from Morton’s—to return the damn thing! After one week on the lawns, here’s me demanding a full refund. You believe that?”

“Nuh-uh,” affirmed Bryce.

“Well…” said Packard solemnly, “back to the trusty Deere S140 for me, can tell ya that much.”

“It’s fairly plain to see,” added Bryce. “Either Porter was swapping out his 1040 without telling nobody, or they just don’t make ‘em like they used to.” He took a long swig of lemonade, which looked a shade darker than everyone else’s.

“You said it,” said Packard, pushing the Oakleys back up his porous nose. “Never took Porter for a liar, but he surely lucked out with the only half-decent LTX on the line. Say, Bryce, what’s the opposite of a dud?”

Bryce frowned, mulling it over. “A shooting star.”

“I like that—a shooting star,” echoed Packard. “That 1040 was a shooting star. Now where’d Wallop get off to?”

“Think I seen him by Mrs. Chen’s new F-150,” I lied.

“Right,” said Bryce, licking his chops, “better fetch him. Man’s a magnet for trouble.”

We shook and I carried on. Marcella and the girls would’ve set the table by now. I could practically taste those heavenly hushpuppies, the sizzling fried shrimp, the golden sweet cornbread…

My stomach grumbled but still I walked slow in the twilight, heavy under the weight of the cold facts: Never again would I see or hear or hold my dear Silas. He’s gone. The words rang in my head like a church bell gone awry until the streets swam and the houses shook. He’s gone, gone, gone forever. The words pulsed through me, heavy as anchors in the gut.

And then, all at once, the blame turned round to face me.

Trembling, I lowered myself onto some grass. Marcella would understand if I arrived late. Though she never breathed a thing about it, I believe she always had a hunch about Silas and me. But Silas, my poor Silas… he’d just become so darn adamant about it. About bringing the unspoken out into the world.

Try as I might, he wouldn’t be talked down. “But I have a family!” I insisted. He didn’t care. “You’re living a lie,” he told me. “The man I know could never live with the weight of that.”

He left me no choice.

I planted the second bottle and let the Good Lord decide the rest.

I stirred all night over what Bryce had said. That they don’t make ‘em like they used to, and about the shooting stars. I got up as dawn broke, quietly, so as not to wake Marcella. I put on the coffee then sat at the table and watched long, orange streaks spill out over the horizon. Those feckless boys were exactly right—just for all the wrong reasons.

The 1040 was a solid mower, with an honest 19 HP and responsive 2WD. Over flat stretches, I’d seen Silas coax it up to 5.2 mph. But best-in-class the 1040 was not. Its secret didn’t reside in the machining or the engineering. It was Silas himself, a man who left nothing to chance that care could prevent.

Oil, air filters, and spark plugs were regularly changed; nicked or dull blades were routinely swapped out; spindles and pivot points were ritually greased. Silas kept it so tiptop he put the owner’s manual to shame. Hell, the way he cared for that thing, he downright put most parents to shame.

Guys like Packard and Wallop and Bryce, they’d never understand a thing like that. Not sure I do myself. But that was Silas Porter for you, a shooting star, through and through.

Now, from last thaw right on to Hallowe’en, I keep the grass on the Porter family gravesite, praying: Forgive me, my love.

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Le bonheur est, dans l’amour, un état anormal.
- Marcel Proust

I am not the first Mrs. Howard. The first Mrs. Howard burned down my yoga studio before stealing my Civic and driving it into the Champlain. They pulled her unconscious body from a riverbank and kept her in a pentobarbital coma for two weeks. I learned a lot about myself in those two weeks. I learned I could wish someone dead, and mean it.

She survived.

Two or three times a year Randy Sr. takes Randy Jr. to visit the first Mrs. Howard in prison. It’s a half-day’s drive, so they make a trip of it. I don’t get an invite. Me, I’m left to babysit Randy Jr.’s hamsters, Tyler and Trevor.

“It’s just a few days,” Randy Sr. assures me. “Plus it’s good bonding for me and the boy.”

He says it’s not really about visiting the first Mrs. Howard. That part’s only a couple hours, sometimes less. The rest is “guy-time”—joyriding the I-95, devouring junk food, marathoning fishing shows in motel rooms. You know, wholesome masculine fun.

They send me pictures throughout the trip. Badly composed shots, always over- or under-exposed, never quite right—even on a smartphone. I attended Pratt. Graduated with honors. I try to explain it to them but they don’t get it. They smirk and exchange looks. I can feel it.

They are blind to beautiful things.

Randy Jr. always brings me back some kind of tchotchke. Sometimes it’s one of those complimentary matchbooks from a roadside diner. You know, the ones kept in a clear glass bowl by the register. A trivial memento, to be sure, but alright, fine with me. I can actually use matches. To burn incense or spark a joint.

Tourist pins are the worst. I have a collection of them in my jewelry box, seven in all now. One is cut like the state; another is a miniature license plate with Howard embossed on it; still another is a speckled trout with a sad, gaping mouth. Campy stuff like that.

I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing one.

Like clockwork, me and Randy Sr. get to fighting. He plans on hauling Randy Jr. on another little road trip to see the first Mrs. Howard week after next, just three months since their last pilgrimage.

“But he’s twelve,” I say. “Put him on a bus. He’s a big kid—all the meat and milk and seed oils you feed him. He’ll manage.”

“His diet’s fine, thank you.”

“Fine? Christ, Randy. Kid looks like a retired drill sergeant.”

“Lay off, would ya? Save your almonds and beans till we get back.”

He’s checking his email while he speaks to me. It’s just so unbelievably rude. He never takes anything seriously.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you,” I say. “You think vegans are pussies, don’t you? Think animal cruelty is a big hilarious joke, right?”

He rolls his eyes. “I didn’t say that.”

I snatch the phone from between his fat paws and chuck it across the room. Now I’ve got his attention.

“Use your brain,” I tell him, jabbing a fingertip into his temple, that gateway to nothing. “All those exogenous hormones circulating in his bloodstream—he’s growing a full-fledged lawn on his back. You realize that, don’t you, you stupid idiot?”

But Randy Sr. is having none of it. He strikes down the idea of eating right. Strikes down the idea of not visiting the first Mrs. Howard. Waves his hands as if to dispel a fart.

“The boy is normal and healthy,” he says. “Healthy and happy.”

He crosses the room and plucks his phone from the ground. Inspects it. Chuckles.

“Wow,” he says. “Case is bombproof,” he says. “Five stars!”

I feel my eyelid start to twitch again. Keep pushing me, Randy Sr. Keep pushing, I dare you. He takes a step towards me, then another. His clammy palms come down on my shoulders like rusty anchors weighing me down, always weighing me down.

“The kid should know his mother,” he says.

I recognize that tone—trying to make me see “reason”. Trying to make me “compromise”. Sure, part of me wants to relent, wants me to fall into his loving embracing. Sometimes I wonder if maybe I’m being a little too harsh. But then I remember that the most important thing is in life is standing your ground. Give an inch, take a mile. Learned that the hard way.

“There’s enough distance between them,” he pleads. “I don’t wanna make it worse by not going. You get that, don’t you?”

He moves in for the hug.

“Whatever,” I say, repulsing him. “I’m just the second Mrs. Howard, right? Runner-up?”

“Sweetie, don’t be like th—”

“Save it.” I storm downstairs and slam the front door behind me before he can untangle his fat, wet tongue.

“You’re fucked!” I yell up to our bedroom window from the front yard.

I’m literally shaking. Gaslighter always making me out to be the bad guy. So fed up, same shit every few months.

Speaking of months, the first Mrs. Howard still has 71 to go. The boy will be old enough to drive himself before her sentence is up. Let’s see what Randy Sr. has to say for himself then. Then we’ll know what’s really going on in that febrile hamster brain of his.

Then we’ll know.

Rachida asks why it bothers me so much anyway. We have coffee together whenever our teaching schedules line up. The new studio is the definition of tacky, but my clients are too basic to notice—they gobble that shit up.

“Bitch got what she deserved,” Rachida says. “Now live that life she can’t—best revenge, ain’t it?”

I tell her it’s not the first Mrs. Howard I worry about—it’s him. Like, he tells me he no longer thinks about the first Mrs. Howard? Really? I know his password and he still keeps pictures of her. Of them—together. I check his Insta. Same thing. I go through his FB search history and—surprise-surprise!—there she is.

Worst of all I see the way he stares at her paintings, watercolour landscapes in the tradition of waiting room art. They hang mockingly in Randy Jr.’s bedroom, as if they were part of the goddamn house. This man gets distracted whenever he looks at them. He looks too long. He forgets what he’s talking about. He drools. He’s not fooling anybody.

Rachida changed her mind after I spilled the tea. Rachida calls it a, “toxic domestic situation.” Thinks I should leave him. Thinks our wavelengths are totally out of sync. “This can happen,” she assures me like a pro.

Rachida actually listens to me.

In another week Randy Sr. and Randy Jr. will be strapping into the Subaru Outback and risking a fatal car crash just to go see the first Mrs. Howard. They’ll throw away our hard-earned savings on fuel and poison the atmosphere just to go see the first Mrs. Howard. They’ll kill our planet and maybe themselves just to go see the first Mrs. Howard, that snake.

I am not the crazy one here.

The first Mrs. Howard keeps good lawyers. Even behind bars she’s still milking his bank accounts like ripe udders.

Now they’re in the process of appealing. Again. Claim to have new evidence. What evidence, it’s anyone’s guess. They say it proves the first Mrs. Howard innocent—poor, fragile Bambi—unwittingly drugged and coerced, dragged kicking and squawking like pork to slaughter. Tricked. Manipulated into doing the things that she did.

Oh yeah? By who?

By the second Mrs. Howard, obviously. Obviously.

Please. I dare you. Come after me and my family, you deranged old hag. Who are they going to believe? I’m young and you’re old. I’m hot and you’re not. I teach Ashtanga and you attempted a murder-suicide because your husband didn’t want to fuck you anymore.

Please. Try me.

Rachida says I shouldn’t worry about it. “She’s lying,” she says. “I mean, she is lying—right?”

“Absolutely,” I tell her. “Biggest liar you ever met.”

Rachida nods her perfect ebony head in solidarity. “Nothing to worry about then, I guess.” Rachida has got my back. Rachida empowers me to stay strong. To stay positive. She reminds me to breathe.

Breathe.

We light sandalwood incense and sit for fifteen minutes of Metta. After, I tell Rachida I managed to locate a small locus of compassion for the first Mrs. Howard. “It was just hiding really, really deep inside my Anahata,” I tell her.

Rachida likes that, giggles.

“I’m glad you feel better,” she says. “Namaste.”

Sunlight streams beautifully through the studio’s south-facing bay windows. It almost makes you forget the godawful color palette and rotten pinewood floors and cringe buddhas. Truth is, I spent the whole session fantasizing about strangling the first Mrs. Howard to death.

“I do feel much better,” I tell Rachida. “Namaste.”

A few days pass before Randy Sr. gets news of the appeal. I deleted the first email from his inbox, so they must’ve sent a follow-up.

He doesn’t even wait to get home to bring this up. Typical Randy Sr.—always so impatient, airing his dirty laundry for all those envious pricks at the office to see. I often wonder how anyone considers this man an industry-leader in tech. He can barely hold his personal life together.

Anyway he calls me at work, right in the middle of our monthly social media shoot. He knows this and still he decides to excuse himself from an important meeting with the San Fran branch to call me in the middle of my shoot. I’m holding a very fucking strenuous Hanumanasana pose and my phone is going off and it absolutely decimates my kundalini flow. Humiliating.

Rachida covers for me. On my way out I hear her giving advice to Pasquale, our photographer. Please—as if she understands the first thing about art direction. I attended Parsons. Graduated with honors.

Now I’m in the locker room trying to keep my voice down. Some yappity crones are getting changed, loitering and cooing like dumpster pigeons. God they’re slow and just so chatty—blah, blah, blah. Go home already, ladies.

He says he’s thinking of taking a leave of absence. Right now. During the most lucrative quarter of the fiscal year. Like, sure, right, makes perfect sense—what a brilliant way to tank our living standards. Guess my maxed-out AMEX will just for itself at twenty-fucking-nine-percent interest. Now I’m really losing it. I lock myself in the bathroom. I can hardly breathe. Literally fuming.

Is there really anyone as stupid and oblivious as this man on the entire planet? The first Mrs. Howard is literally waging a satellite war against my family. Trying to divide and conquer. And the Randys are making it easy for her, like a hot knife slicing through their buttery hearts. Does he really not see that?

Randy Sr. is blind to truth and justice.

“But they’re your lawyers,” I remind him. “Make them back off.”

“What am I supposed to do? They say they have proof.”

“You really wanna bring that up again? Who do you believe, Randy? Make up your mind—for real this time.”

“You, babe,” he says. “Always you. I’m just talking strategy. How do we handle this?”

“Like we always handle it. Nothing new about her pathetic little fictions.”

“You know, she always had that nervous energy about her,” he mumbles. “Mom warned me… Back when we first started dating junior year. Said, “Don’t trust nervous women.” Said they’re never up to any good.” He sighs. “Then again, mom hated everyone.”

“Randy,” I snap. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“It’s just…” he stammers, impish cortex parched for thought. “I don’t know. Lawyers say they’ve got some guy willing to testify. Should we be worried?”

“Christ’s sakes, Randy. What guy?”

“Easy, easy, I’m just the messenger. I don’t know—some guy. Some dealer. Said you bought his entire lot of LSD and PCP. Said it was enough to keep the entire state of Rhode Island tweaked for a year.”

“Allegedly, Randy,” I hiss. “Allegedly.” Suddenly I’m pulling my bare foot from a cantaloupe-sized hole in the drywall. Those nosy crones have better’ve fucked off. People need to learn to mind their business.

“Right,” he says, “of course—allegedly.”

“Do I look like some kinda mind control expert to you?” I say. “Some random junky walks in off the street and offers to testify against me—in return for what, a quick fix? Really? That’s their airtight defense?”

“That’s about right, yeah.”

“Listen to me, Randall, they’re desperate. His word against mine. Hearsay, that’s all this is. Like, what, he’s gonna produce fucking receipts? Do dealers even do that?” I say. “Do they?”

“No, no, you’re right. Just lawyers doing their lawyer thing. Listen, breaks my heart to see you go through this, hun,” he clears his throat. “But…”

“But what?”

“You know…”

“Spit it out, Randy, I don’t have all day. They’re probably doing Dhanurasana without me right now and you know how hard I worked to compress my spine this week.”

“I mean, sure, obviously guy’s nuts. But what’s the angle? Probably had to cut a deal for a dropped charge or something, no?”

“Oh my god. Why are you so obsessed with this loser? He’s a junky, Jesus-fucking-Christ, listen to yourself. You’re gonna believe some crackhead over your own wife? Now that’s classy.”

“It’s not like that, sweetie, I—”

“Real fucking classy. Why don’t you go marry him instead?”

I tell him he better think real hard about what comes next out of his mouth, because I’m pretty fucking tired of his second-guessing.

He stammers something pathetic and I hang up on his ass. Feels good to take control. Like, what? I’m supposed to just sit here and let myself fall victim to his verbal abuses? Is that what a good wife is supposed to do? Typical. Elites like him always get away with everything.

Over it.

I warned him twice already, so help me god if he makes me warn him again.

Randy Jr. is in the kitchen with us, building a Lego metropolis for his gross lab rats to waddle over and defecate on and smash to bits. He’d be better off reading a textbook or taking apart a lamp or something. But no—it’s this sick fixation with hamsters. Whatever. He’s so mesmerized by the little spectacle he’s oblivious to me and his father yelling.

“You’re not fucking going tomorrow,” I tell him again, eyelid twitching like automatic rifle fire. “And that’s that.”

“Watch your tone with me,” he says, growing a pair for once.

“Yeah? Go to her and forget about ever stepping foot in this house again.” I get up in his face, grab the starched collar of his Ralph Lauren polo. “Get me?”

He swats my hand aside. Violently. I’ll remember this. Then he says, “You’re forgetting who pays the mortgage, buttercup.” He wags an aggressive finger in my face. It’s all I can do not to chop it off. I’m eyeballing the scissors behind him. They gleam seductively from the open dishwasher rack.

He turns to see what I’m looking at and his moronic eyes grow wide like frightened cattle. Disbelief sets in. Paralysis takes hold.

I move in for it.

I’m calm. I’m steady. I weave past him, scissors within reach. Randy Sr. has an epiphany, grasps the situation, screams like a bitch. His scream spooks Randy Jr. who also screams, spooking Tyler and Trevor, both of whom squeak and flee the kitchen. I nearly trip over the two panicked rodents—the hamsters, not the Randys—but catch myself against the sink with one hand, the other clutching the answer to all of my problems.

I start to turn, but my chest tightens. Constricts. I keel over beneath the brand new Calacatta marble island. I dry heave.

“Help,” I try to say. “Help me.”

My mouth is filled with cotton. He puts a thick, useless paw on my back, forgetting all about his big balls.

“Oh my god, babe—you alright? Babe! What’s going on?” He shakes me like an idiot. “Please, answer me. Babe?”

My eyes are watering. The pressure. The noise. I can’t see, I can’t breathe.

“Shut the fuck up,” I wheeze. “Heart-attack,” I wheeze. “Call 9-1-1, you worthless piece of shit.”

In the emergency room the doctor tells me it’s not a heart attack at all, just a panic attack. He actually says it like that: just a panic attack. His actual words. Meanwhile I literally thought I was going to fucking die.

Dumb bastard.

Then he writes me a script for Zoloft. I don’t believe in messing with my neurochemistry, so I crumple it up and tell him to shove it up his ass. Commission-based health care… What a world.

Randy Sr. offers to take me home. Begs me. Smothers me in oafish apologies. He’s got the romantic sensibilities of a toaster.

I grab an Uber.

I wake up in our matrimonial bed, alone.

For all that happened last night I slept better than I have in months. Maybe because of what happened. Some kind of spiritual release. The afterglow is not unlike what I’ve experienced under the spiritual guidance of Her Sacred Majesty, Ayahuasca, during my bi-annual Costa Rican retreats.

I do some stretches in bed. Give thanks to Gaia. Indulge in yummy satori. I think it must be past noon by how quiet the house is, but the clock says it’s only just after eight. Usually Randy Sr. is showering about now. I listen but hear nothing from the en-suite.

All of a sudden I’m gripped by an intuition I can’t ignore. My third-eye is wide-fucking-open. I spring out of bed and sprint down the hall and barge into the little creep’s room: gone.

School? No. Today is Saturday. I glance around. Tyler and Trevor are still here, munching gluttonously from an opulent mound of pellets, their cage overflowing with fresh hay. Which means…

I rush back to the master and raid every inch of our walk-in. Randy Sr.’s Samsonite suitcase: gone.

I bolt downstairs and draw the living room blinds, my blood boiling like lava pulsing through titanic fissures in the Earth’s crust. I know it before I see it.

Outback: gone.

He did it. That stupid idiot actually did it. He took his chemically corrupt brat and went to visit the first Mrs. Howard on some next-level Stockholm syndrome shit.

Last thing I remember is standing outside the house in my Versace bathrobe, clutching a fluorescent yellow matchbook with the words, “Big Al’s Diner on I-95” printed in fat, red cursive. Even from my vantage point on the sidewalk, the powerful flames lapped at me like thirsty beasts, singeing the tips of my fake lashes.

Don’t ask me about Tyler and Trevor.

It’s so disgusting here that of course I catch a bad UTI. They want me on antibiotics but I refuse. I tell them I handle things naturally. It’s called trusting your own body. I see them roll their ignorant eyes.

Fuck them—let them work for their paychecks. My taxes pay their fucking salaries. I ask them to fetch me a probiotic and some organic looseleaf sencha and a tea ball and, go figure, they bring me a chewable multivitamin and one teabag. A fucking teabag.

I’m beside myself.

“Look at this,” I shout. “Did you even read the back? How is the only ingredient in green tea “green tea”? The fuck is this—a joke?”

“Take it easy,” they say, clutching the butts of their wimpy little batons.

I toss the vitamin and teabag back at their blotchy, blubbery faces—let them read “Made in China” up close. See how they like it. They get all hot and fussy after that. Yell and grab me like grumpy toddlers. Toss me around.

Whatever. This isn’t forever. Five years tops. And even though me and her are in different cell blocks, folks here talk. What else is there to do? Through the grapevine I hear they’re in the final stages of reviewing her appeal. Looks like she’ll be getting out soon.

But soon isn’t yet.

The Randys will still make an appearance. They can’t resist. They’re drawn to her like knights to a damsel in distress; they can’t ignore a long braid let down off a high tower. Men and their savior complexes. Give me a break.

Well, then, what about me? Where’s my savior? All these months and not even Rachida puts in a visit? Shows how flimsy friendships really are. Little veneers of fake-ass meaning—anything to keep the loneliness at bay. She’s a disingenuous poser, anyway. Always thought so.

Face it: Everyone’s a poser. Trust anyone—anyone at all—and you’ll end up in here like me: a scapegoat in a cement cage. You’ll bunk with some square-jawed convict sentenced for grand larceny. She’ll gawk at your perfect body every time you squat to take a piss and won’t even try to hide it.

That’s the reality you can look forward to when you trust people. So don’t even bother. Because just when you think you’ve built yourself a nice little life, Kali comes roaring down the mountainside like the fucking destroyer of worlds to set it all ablaze.

But the next time Randy Sr. and Randy Jr. come to visit the first Mrs. Howard, I’ll be ready. I’ll have eyes in the room. Not mine, obviously; I give free yoga classes and in return I get eyes wherever I want them. I’ll know every last detail about those visits. I’ll know exactly what they said. I’ll know exactly what they did.

I’ll know how they looked at each other across the visiting table. If they touched hands and if they squeezed hands and for how long. I’ll know if they swallowed hard or pursed their lips or wiped a single goddamn crocodile tear from a reptile eye.

And I’ll know if he bends down and if he takes a knee. And if from his pocket he removes a little black velvet box. And if he opens the box, delicate and trembling like a punk-ass bitch, and asks that conniving old wretch to be the third Mrs. Howard.

Then I’ll know, once and for all, what’s really happening inside that frivolous mind. How those rusty cogs grind away, agonizingly, faithlessly, in that busted brain of his. Then I’ll know.

Then I’ll know it all.

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It reminded me of Achilles in The Odyssey, whose bitter spirit tells Odysseus he would rather be a poor, wretched farmer alive than a dead hero remembered forever. What is glory worth once you’re gone? I have no answers.

They cheer on cue. They always cheer on cue.

The spotlight halos me as I raise my hand the way I’ve rehearsed, the movement as reflexive as breathing. “Every freedom has its price,” I say, my voice rolling through the speakers. “Some years it’s hurricanes. Some years it’s car crashes. Some years, bullets. And yes, I’ll say it straight, since someone’s got to: it’s worth a few deaths to keep our rights strong.”

The sentence moves through the crowd like a match through dry grass. Signs wave, people cry, some even laugh. A woman in a neon visor clutches her chest as if I’ve personally absolved her. Two shaggy-haired teens are locked in a ritualistic high-five that sprawls into its own choreography. I feel taller than my skeleton, made weightless by applause. Behind it all, the staccato click of cameras. I keep my chin high, my expression carved of marble.

Then comes the crack, a disagreement inside the soundscape.

The stage tilts. My knees buckle. A flag slides across my chest and curtains the yellow sticker on my tie. Someone screams—then the whole crowd, their voices rising with the thunder of fleeing feet.

When I open my eyes: nothing. At least, nothing familiar. No spotlights, no stage, no spectators. Just a brightness so pure and blinding it feels like the beams that bind the universe. I am still speaking, though only to myself.

“It’s worth a few deaths.”

The words wobble in the boundless space. They’d sounded muscular on stage, thick as ancient oak. Here they quiver like spider silk. There is no one left to clap.

I try to breathe and discover that breathing is a habit of flesh. I reach for my sternum and find absence. Nothing to be reached, nothing that reaches. I am the suggestion of a person. I want to grab onto something—to steady myself, to feel the reciprocal pressure of a solid object against my palm. But I am untethered, atoms unbound and strewn like marbles in a desolate cathedral.

And in the untethering I am afraid.

Faces swim up out of the ether, billboards whizzing past on a lonesome stretch of road. For a moment, I am joy: Here is my wife this morning, laughing as she brushes lint from my suit. And there, my girls—four and seven—racing through the yard, one barefoot in the dewy grass, the other brandishing a stick with the gravity of a holy sceptre. She had pressed a sticker to my tie before I left, a yellow star with a smiley face, crooked but stubborn.

“For good luck,” she lisped through gapped teeth.

Those things I said, the beliefs I hold… they weren’t personal. I meant anonymous deaths, if I’m being honest. The kind that come in numbers, scrolling at the bottom of a newscast alongside the Dow Jones. A percentage point, a graph trending up. Deaths you mention over dinner, shake your head at, then pass the potatoes.

Not mine.

I said once on television that tragedy is the price of liberty, that tyranny is worse than grief. I believed it. Believed it in the way a man believes a bridge will hold because he has crossed it before. Part of me still does. But belief has one texture when your lungs are full and another when your daughters are waiting for a bedtime story you’ll never read them.

The applause still echoes faintly, as though piped in from some distant room. I want it back—the heat in my chest, the swell of certainty, the entire complicated storm of electrons pretending to be a soul. I want to be the man I was just minutes ago.

Instead I swim bodiless through the void and arrive exactly nowhere.

“It’s worth a few deaths,” I try again.

But the arithmetic has changed. It isn’t anonymous anymore. It’s my wife’s handwriting on the funeral checks; my daughters’ tears on their new black dresses. Their memory of me will be bent and shaped by a million commentary videos about the angle of the bullet as it pierced my skin.

Maybe this is the sum we never stop arriving at. Violence braided through the marrow, dressed in speeches and flags. Every calculation ends in a body, every ledger takes a name. This time the name is mine.

I can still picture the sticker on my tie, bright as a sun against the pooling blood. I want to peel it off and hand it back to her, let her stick it to her forehead and giggle. I want to say, “See? It stayed on the whole time.” I want to tell her that I chose this, that I calculated carefully, that ideas shape the world and sometimes a structure requires a load-bearing sacrifice.

I whisper the words one last time. “It’s worth…”

But I remain unassembled, unconvinced. I don’t know what freedom should cost, not anymore. All I know is what it leaves in its wake.

An empty chair at the table.

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