Lexington crawls and crawls and crawls, fearful that her arms will break sooner than it takes to reach infinite bliss. she is a professional crawler—that is to say a paid crawler, the kind that is paid in loving glances that rarely culminate in anything other than a free trip to infiniteless blissless lane—where skeletons dance in red and black Zoro-shaped skins and the sun never sets or rises, but merely sits like a cat—still and motorless.
she is a dancer of a sort. she dances across vast floors of guilt and fear and rage and resentment. she dances on the sabbath—especially on the sabbath, if only to tell the boss who’s boss. she dances at sleep—especially at sleep, if only to tell time the time. she dances in the interstices, those gawking holes of everythingness. she is a titan of the offbeat, a deity without a flock—not because she hasn’t earned one, but because they haven’t earned her. she is lexington the loveless, and she loves more than you breathe, more than you blink, more than you snort whatever it is you snort. (we all snort.)
there was a time when lexington was like you and me. there was a time when she watched her step, when she pleased and thank youed, when she walked upright like an anxious piece of hardened, endlessly twisted cloth. but that time passed when you opened your eyes to this world. and lexington is who lexington was always meant to be: your nightmare. your dream. your cage of out-stretched desire. and you are what you were meant to be: a dot. a tinsy-winsy firesome dot.