November 22nd, 2002 - 3:55 a.m.

This seems to be the moment.

This is the moment in which the gnawing in the abdominal cavity peaks and threatens to burst out, beneath the ribcage, in a grotesque display of whatever disgusting is capable of.

This is the moment where golden idols of praised prose are scoffed at. And wondered if they are, in fact, merely capable of intelligence upon contact with pen and paper. And would, in fact, make horrid playmates. And even worse conversationalists. And bore one to tear.

This is the moment that the pillow could, but will not, metamorphosize into something other than down encased in cotton. And one wonders: Why not?

This is the moment for blanket statements. You people suck. No, not you, the one behind you, in the sneakers.

This is the moment to omit sticky sentiments. Saccharine makes for dirty fingertips. And even worse discussion.

This is the moment in which a smile means everything.

N.

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