Ilk

The old folks and their friends are my friends until we die, we fly side by side, high above the rocky cliffs in our hot air balloon that we made out of our own skin...we're really talking about sacrifice here! (I pull out a tooth for the mademoiselle, she hops around overcome with delight). My hair falls out like blades of summer grass, like snow onto the floor, and when I raise my head, I see people of all ilk. There is nothing to fear but fear itself. I give them my hand and instantly I'm dragged, swept off my feet, taken away by the mirthful, buoyant and very merry group—aged, gray and beautiful (I love this race!). My heart bounces around from one happy person to another, and I'm just in the fucking zone. I look down and I see my hair—little follicles on the floor—and I can see the mademoiselle, holding my little tooth, in the eyes of these old folks sharing me amongst their friends and I see how real this is: the mirth, the rapture, the ecstasy—the interdependence! I climb back into our hot air balloon and remove the weights.