A Winning Style

Speeding ahead on a cloud of hubris, the cynic some grand figure behind, I'm reminded of earlier times, times when such things almost almost mattered. When waving to affiliates shrunken by distance was the cap of your night. When searing referrals were waged across pages in glitter and pomp. Hell, when there was a sense of c— No. I can't say it. Now, blitzed and conquered by everything from inspiration to indolence, the greatest thrill is uncertain, hiding within whatever something we've yet to try. Which isn't to distract from my central thesis: you'll need several full-time subordinates, a glut of the very best luck and another century of technological advancement to catch me.

Bearing all that in mind, zaghafte Schritte have been taken towards Wiedergeburt. What they are will have to remain a secret for the time, but know that they have followable footprints — stuff you can touch. Forgive me, it's rather difficult to express some of this in English. Was ich meine ist, dass die überwiegende unterschwellige Erotik unter mir ist Anfang bis Blase an die Oberfläche, wie so viele Gerüche. Kissen zurück, die Arme gekreuzt, ich Entleerungsvorrichtung ein Ei. Endlich, endlich!

As I streak ever further, the beguiling but bested ant stretches out in the pool, commanding the calm. Bathers beside look on in envy at a swimming suit not bursting from the body beneath and a swimmer with infallible glide. The microorganism exits the water, augustly draped in a towel, and everything else is crude, undignified. I collapse in memory. Turning back: a speck, wearing the light in the eyes of others, and infinite dots.