This mediocrity is gone. Being consists of mobility, of acting, and actions affect thoughts and affect the external world.

He does not move. He does not even exist, then, I say. He has shriveled himself into a pea with his own fear, afraid of being any one thing and thus cancelling out something else, he choses nothing. He is a void, luminious and incredible.

One cannot love something that does not move. By this, I theoretically distinguish my love for him, tell myself that you cannot fuck a stone.

But this theory does not account for hope, the thought that, like a god, I could some day blow breath into him, bring him to life.

And with that thought, I linger.