in response to the kid

how pure are your sentiments (but on a closer look, they are surely rusty, that is to say corrupted by Nature, and unashamed), laid out on the table like a swallow of throwing knives? i dare not guess. how eagerly you'd receive her, hands in your pockets, now out and above your head, i may take offense, but, then, again, you may be right. can it all be so innocent? [i anticipate your response: innocent, no, but therefore god-like?] . . . and if it proves to be that alien sea, solaris's sheath, Lem's perverse reef? I, for one, would welcome the company, build tall walls and lose my mind in it, auto-converse with various familiar forms. In short, they (or is it one?) are all talk, as it seems, teasing the meadows, settling some ancient score by withholding what we expect. tempting Fate? (as if recognition could accomplish anything of the sort)
that paltry matron needs no incitement from me

but she's (and now i leave Fate alone) not going to name herself, boys, or, what is more likely, she will, she has, which obliterates us. maybe there was never a need to previously, maybe it's considered vanity, appalling. and in another world, but in our world, she creeps and the men make excuses to head into town. they bunch up at the barbershop and bristle, partially blaming each other with ignorant abandon while simultaneously unable to stop smoking cigarettes, unnerved, not realizing they are the same beasts they have ridden all of their lives.

i suppose it does, always has, acted, or reacted, reflectively, fixing us as it were.
discovery? it's a recycled night-mare!
an agglomeration of discarded dreams, reformed, hovering but ultimately powerless, until we infect it.