“And I, infinitesimal being, drunk with the great starry void, likeness, image of mystery,
I felt myself a pure part of the abyss, I wheeled with the stars;
my heart broke loose on the wind.”
? Pablo Neruda, 100 Love Sonnets
The taxi takes a sharp right-hand turn inserting itself into the void within the choke of traffic on a random Downtown street. Hydroplaning tires churn the susurrant sound of water against their tread to the slick beats of low dub-step on the driver’s radio. The Voyeur glances into the rear-view mirror where a pair of lovers tangle-up in high-price limbs to provoke kisses framed in hindsight. He smiles as would any deviant of his class; remarkably tantalized by their erogenous exhibitions.
At the next traffic light, he takes amaranthine leisure (as is his gift) to reconnoiter the foot traffic. Haggard Jezebel’s walk in pairs, sonmanbulants inside their red-light world but they do not entice this man under the Chauffeurs cap. No, his vices are not found between the slippery fetid thighs of these meaningless, nothing-creatures of the night. Instead, his sights are set, focused and fixated, inside the rush of carnality when sheer fortuitousness sends three innocently drifting pages to float across his windshield. The motor idles through the green light as he plucks them one by one from their rain-soaked clinging to the glass. His filthy coalescent passengers do not take notice of his dalliance.
The first paragraph is headed by the title: The Merry Wives of Windsor and reads like a Sibylline prophecy. Our driver finds his mood transformed by amorous delirium, reveling in the shiver of an insatiable rapacious appetite.
“Fie on sinful fantasy! Fie on lust and luxury! Lust is but a bloody fire, Kindled with unchaste desire, Fed in heart, whose flames aspire As thoughts do blow them, higher and higher. Pinch him, fairies, mutually; Pinch him for his villainy; Pinch him, and burn him, and turn him about, Till candles and starlight and moonshine be out.” (V.v.71)
The Nightcaller settles the torn love-letters beside him and proceeds through the yellow light. From his black silk ribboned Fedora, he finds a single white feather. Spearing the calamus into the soft skin of his inner wrist until the faint spherule of blood stains the tip and all of the fringe of its fletching. In between towering skyscrapers, the offering is loosed to the gathering momentum of the engines rev, on route towards Kismet.
Always, and Only: For you.