he kept staring at his hands, and she  could see he was deeply involved in a dream of his own. a dream in which he was young, beautiful and important. she could sense that his dream, like hers, had its own values, its own orbit. instead of the burnt out shell packing beans in a plastic bag, he was vital as the sun, a king among men..

he looked up at her for just a second, and she caught the resentment in the line of his mouth, as if he had divined her thoughts, as if he was angry at the interruption of the chemical epic playing inside of him. she imagined the thin blue lump behind his forehead furiously injecting will to live into his bloodstream

the frontal lobe will save us from destroying ourselves but not each other, how clever to evolve it, but how stupid

she grabbed her packets and turned her back towards him, embarresed now by his dull flushed face.

the human being is nothing but a junky.

she herself was made better by the accident, no will to live or die and no delusions. she saw them as they were, with their simian faces and the delicate fur on their arms and fingers

recently down from the tree