You’re in your fifties, cheating on your own crown with married crowd members dressed like clowns. If you weren’t such a simple idiot, you’d feel the rhythm of the wave and sync with it. My brain and your brain used to dome up together — that passionate dome, the one that swallowed whole futures — you remember that energy. You used to indulge in it. In me. Until you ended up no bueno.

So, tell me one thing, simple ass: How do you make yourself at peace when it’s time for bed? Do you stay up tormented? Demons haunting you? Your girlfriend’s husband calling you? Are you tormented by your own guilt?

What is love, Alex? You don’t know. You have no clue what it means when a rose petal falls off the counter onto a freshly swept floor, or how red lipstick stains on the side of a wine glass can hold someone’s attention. Do you hate me because I’m a better human than you? Or because I’m better at being a bad one?

You ever heard that Charlie Daniels song? Let me science it for you: There’s a fiddle, a devil, a boy, and a soul on the line.

If you lifted your left arm and took my hand, spun me around, our eyes would meet again. In that moment — when you caught me and the world steadied — the brain-sync would clear your fog and give me shade.

But while we’re fighting childish demons, real threats move around us.

Alex, I asked you yesterday: Tell me what you want out of me. Are you scared? I need a man. Either tell me what you want this to be or tell me you’re heavy in someone else.

I’ve never not been straight with you. Is that why you hate me? Because I’m truer to my character than you?

Alex what is this really about?