Ben: Out of All Proportion

Specifically for my gorgeous muse — named, of all things, Ben —, here is a response to mere prodding. Perhaps one day, on a quiet, earthly beach, his presence alone will set about the musing, but for now his soul purpose can only be reached through goading fists — gorgeous goading fists, granted, but still not innocent, inspirational ones. Thus, I, atop my newly artificial podium, have a question to pose out of all proportion: what shall I wreak?

Smoke! Of course! Raisin affairs —. Or does thou wish to confine his proddee to celebrity fashion criticism?: "Did you see Nickel's prairie dress? It looked as if she'd sat on an effigenic Las Vegas wedding cake at a humorist convention in Berlin.". Yes, my savoir-faire extends even that far — although I suspect my raison d'être neglects those far-flung fields. Do you, Ben? Either way, I have no Francweese tongue and have run out of clichés. But there's always the quo—

"Why do we spend so much or our time reading about fictional characters when we have so many real characters at our disposal, characters who are untainted by the laws of narrative and artistic knowledge, and with whom interaction is infinitely more fulfilling? Are we really so sheltered and hollow that we favour pale reflections of life over the real thing? We listen to other people sing aphorisms in our ears and read about other people's fictional lives on our laps in trains, buses, trams, where we are surrounded by other people, and yet no one does a thing about it — no one glances left. Christ! I mean, we're nearing the end of the last possible year where my age matches the century."
"Um, yes. Very insightful, Ben," I yawned. "Um— Happy birthday?"
"It wasn't really, but I appreciate your belateness."
"Belatedness," I corrected.
"I know; I was being smart."
"Well stop it. I'm tired."
"Fine. Goodnight, darling."
"Goodnight."
"—Darling."
"Goodnight."