| A Frightening Symptom I only need to be an Indian prostitute so I can be with you-- tall in your uniform, shy and barely twenty, not yet mustachioed. There are no strict delusions. I only need to be a Spanish peasant you hold to your wheezing buzzing lungs as I lay dying. I only need to try to kiss you, mistaking you as my lover, sucking the rich Englishman cigarette air out of you. You needn't kiss me back too much, either; you might pull away and say you have got a wife. That would be ok, as long as I can say that I once had a split-second bristly kiss with you. I don't need more than that. These are not strictly delusions. |