Fuck Everyone But Us

We wait for you to unhinge your voice from the phone, and we cringe at the way it carries through the air and cannot think of how it must carry over the extra space we fill with wires in between us. What kind of wholeness does that offer, bridges across distances that are then clicked off, hung up, set on the receiver, recreating the unspanable space they once had, now discontent with that space, now cursing it as something that could have been possessed, crossed, traversed but will not, instead of an impossible fact of life, a law of the universe that says these objects cannot touch. What impossible buildings will we construct to fill our days with toppling them down, what Jenga games of off-balance and chance — and when we find out these are not games to fill up time until life begins but are instead life itself how will we keep from turning that hurtling urge into its flattened result, its ominous echoes, "We are making our final descent"?