Dogma is the middleman, standing in my way. I remain the semi-recluse, curious about others. So I poke them with a stick. There, in the middle, the fleshy part that gives, that bounces back, is that the gut?
While dissecting cats, we learn that the intestine is like a rope, tight and strong. Tight and strong are the threads gods use. Can we pull threads apart, reveal molecules of molecules, symbolic wool from symbolic sheep?
I'm not good on the phone, which is why I never call. I miss the curly wires, umbilical cords separating me from the real and physical, the space between public and private. These strands of strands, invisible, are like those cords. They kept us safe because they marked the distinction.
How safe are the rules that guide our gestures? Can we trust the middleman? We pluck the threads, regardless of what they protect.
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