Perhaps that is our doom, our human curse, to never really know one another. We erect edifices in our minds about the flimsy framework of word and deed, mere totems of the true person, who, like the gods to whom the temples were built, remains hidden. We understand our own construct; we know our own theory; we love our own fabrication. Still . . . does the artifice of our affection make our love any less real?
Rick YanceyThe doctor frowned upon drinking and often expressed wonderment at men who willingly made imbeciles of themselves.
Rick YanceyThen I strip the pants away from each leg, like peeling a banana. That's it, the perfect metaphor: peeling a banana.
Rick Yancey