Back in my dark apartment. Whole body tired from staying up too late too many nights in a row. I tossed some of my dirty clothes that piled up at the foot of my bed onto the floor. I lay awake for some time thinking about a theater. I was inside. The lights were low, but it was empty. It was easy, I thought—it’s meaning too readily apparent. “When are the peak hours” the instructor said, and the class repeated, “when are the peak hours.” From generation to generation we pass along our most sacred tropes. Yet we, in our awakened state, reject the tropes; we attack them like our bodies do foreign elements—though, they are not foreign—on the contrary, they are essentially us. We attack them—no. Few of us attack them while the bulk dead, regnant among us, live and relive their most obvious and voluptuous hinges, transitions, states of change—never the same at the point of crossing…
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