The ceiling must contemplate spheres orbiting my commotion. Colleagues and I improvise fluent choreography. Patrons adjudicate; feed me currencies I earn. Their appetite for deliverance, I serve.
Yet performance doesn’t appease past authority. Find something real. As if what I balance were intangible. Others say: find someone nice. But I lack credentials to satisfy. Sure, I save for building—but can’t buy guys I deign to like.
Once, after unmasking, I exited to moonlight in front; someone behind— heard footsteps accelerate in pursuit of my tips. His pacing dropped, but I never stopped a life of interminable racing— when I’m not waiting.