I masturbate in the bed in which I was conceived. My lust ungarnered, my sweat and semen in the same sheets as my unborn brother. Brothers and uncles. Fathers, brothers, and uncles, lying in the same bed unconceived. Generations will rest here and be soiled and go unsoiled as they are spared the suspense. Hell, they're only in the air for a couple seconds and then they're gone like the 1986 Challenger or Haley's Comet or my childhood. When I retreat to my bed to avoid the world I'm looking at you to pollinate me from afar, never knowing of the declining count with which you have to work. At least you have your young to count before you release them, because it's not so high, and they won't be so high. A family bush...imagined only...not present, existing merely in depassioned lives. We'll grow here together and rejoice as a unit, declaring ourselves overwrought with emotion and unable to get the hell out of there and stop imagining and start talking to others in the Laundromat.
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