" Gingersnaps cunt would remain unobtainable forever" thought Big Boy as he drove just fast enough to keep thoughts like these at bay, until the nubile had appeared clutching her dog to her breasts, "Oh those breasts and those legs and buttocks", so revealed by her barely there bikini, some Hawaiian print excuse for near-nudity repeated on beaches around the world and backyards with pools, and without, that he'd visited so long ago as to be another existence, when perhaps it was, for Big Boy had changed, so sober now as to be a threat to the memories held in the minds of those he'd known all those years before, when even he had paraded in his smugglers, unknown, before younger eyes than his, in his prime of life, ignored, derided for even thinking he might be worth a second look, or a dream, that became a fantasy, over fingers that knew exactly where to find that thing that must be found in us all, that part we all have but is seldom uncovered to the knowing of even the best of our friends, whose words were heard but then denied for aspersions that suited far better, that suited needs as well as hopes, as well as egos that wouldn't be dented by neglect, or lack of suitability, the needs screamed to the Heavens so loudly that shock prevailed as to why a quiet prayer wasn't heard at appropriate times, for this was an imploring through desperation when only they would do, when you struggle and struggle to find something smart or humorous to say or write, to find that something that some-one might notice and applaud, as applause you have given when perhaps not earnt, as mere support to a failing cause, to a cause bound with secrecy, a cause so high-falluting that the general public are not admitted, are not wanted to sully the merest suggestion of acceptance, a suggestion so sincere as to become an outline beneath white cloth, her name hung at a desperate angle unable to be read without implying crudity or even that most harmful of traits voyeurism, where no-one but the lowest of the low enjoy pornography, which hidden beneath a soundtrack to our lives, if lives are so full of beauty and obvious allure, is just Big Boy setting loose the dogs of his condition to ponder all and sundry, as all and sundry are driven to ponder not what they should but what they're told, as sameness overtakes differences, as fingerprints ebb and flow to reveal our similarities, our fear at being stuck in the everyday rut of suburban nightmares that don't go anywhere except back to where they were yesterday and will be tomorrow, dreams that memories will be enough to get us through our lives that last decades passed when the debts are paid, when the photos are faded, no longer stuck in albums but pinned to boards at home and at work so all can see how active we've been while grass grew under the very feet of those that wouldn't move even if disaster had found them, causing a strain on minds so numb as to resemble intoxication, which seems never to be far from their minds, and could the mind of one become with a blink the mind of another or even a crowd intent on the kill or desecration of something sacred, something worshipped again in secret for the fear of ridicule at the mere mention of that name, when names had not been swapped in front of the man-of-the-minute because they looked so cute, almost identical, sister and brother, loving as siblings should but a little further than is allowed by decency, she then a victim of her own popularity and a decision to love them all before she was done, to rekindle legends, the feats of superstars, so drunk on their own self-importance as to die an unnatural death, "Pity the poor fuckers" came to mind as Gingersnaps one appearance outside the safety of responsibility came back into mind, when a tattered pair of pants had seen her on display, shopping for ingredients that weren't to be found in Big Boy's basket, a number proffered then left forgotten in a bowl of keys and pens and 8-ball replicas, 3-d glasses and a roach or two, dead and dessicated, their grime like a fine black dust that covered entire surfaces of a mind intent on cleanliness being next to Godliness, as if you can get closer to a God, where jism is baulked at so "I guess sex is out of the question"?, where ones nipples had hardened at the thought of of his explosive orgasm, that might douse her tits and, if lucky, her face, hardened from the years she's put into being in just such a position, over and over it came, over and over again, her posed just so, her audience waiting beyond her imaginings, beyond her reason for being there in the first place, so lost in that time already mentioned as belonging now to history, where this is just the stream of one man's consciousness become a torrent of regret and mishap, where people never left well-enough alone, and with some illnesses one is never alone and can live without the admittance of outside interference from those needing to keep what they will always want to themselves and their chosen few, even if they be strangers just met over a mirror or brief phone conversation that set down rules and guidelines that never existed for this kind of thing, where it's anything goes, is shed with clothing and the knowledge of being there at all, because Big Boy wasn't there and has made it all up from fragments of what he'd heard and been gifted by quickness of sight, or oversights on the part of others who didn't realise just how he worked, he too aloof to get involved unless invited specifically, because rejection is so painful when reason is absent, when desire is a one-way street without arrows as a guide as to direction, without the policing of an authority that might impose it's will and make direction known, as unavoidable, "Because under their circumstances your whims do not mean that much to us", where her promise to herself meant they all had to fall in line and tow her desire, her future, her families existence, her good name even, up for scrutiny by those intelligent enough to ask of religious fervour, of "Just where does the money come from"?, dealings kept from the glare of the public-eye until too late to do anything about, where celebrities avoid the full extent of the law, and the obvious place to look is right under their noses, in their own backyards, where accidents happen if not intended as anything else, where breaths need to be taken if this stream is to be swum alive, where it's currents try to drown, it's calm becoming a rage, it's appearance deceptive to the uninitiated who'd jump right in and go for broke, who'd stroke into it's midst and be drawn down to the depths of no recovery, where it might take an entire existence to balance karma, that even the simple know about and spout as a mantra in search of a reason, because of course they've done no wrong, they were merely born into this world and now have to suffer because until their being confronted with disaster they had no idea of this alternative to God who they can blame for all their sorrow and loss............