Note

He shakes his hand but not mine, his entire stare a forced clinging to his eclipsing youth, sustained through his wit, sarcasm, and, sadly, unending flippancy. He constantly attempts to make all things funny, but thus desecrates the sacred. Does he not realize that humor is a means to filling in the gaps of the non-sacred moments of existence? I look at his truck: immaculate, enormous, expensive. He doesn't want to love. He wants to move up in this world.