“ I don’t want to repeat my innocence. I want the pleasure of losing it again. ”
-F. Scott Fitzgerald – This side of Paradise
Vindication and Benediction usurped on the altar of purity.
Contrary to popular beliefs; hearts come in many shapes, sizes, and types. The forlorn, the lovesick, the broken, the ambivalent, the grief-stricken, the jaded, and the pure. I can, without question, discern them all with prescience. Picking them apart and putting them into individual compartments where I might use and abuse them accurately. Much to my darker star’s whim. Of course, the last category has the smallest vestige; that of an innocent.
The temptation of this virtuous woman is like a bulls-eye target that I now find myself trained upon with keenest senses and an immorality that is salient. She is a clean speck of cold light amongst the throngs of filthy warm blooded degenerates on the Chicago streets. Rapidly becoming a tantalizing distraction to my current flight path and quest. Stalling to land in my predetermined trajectory, I spy upon her from a perched vantage of a four-story rooftops parapet; and find I am now a ravening Celestine.
I cannot say how long I was the voyeur looming from above.
Time has no relativity for my voracious ego; and, my id does not care to punch a time-card.