there’s a woman with a chip in her shoulder; her name is Galatea, and she rebuts all the advances all the men around her make. there’s a man with time on his hands—his kind are the reason most who come to these parties won’t shake. over in the corner sits a boy holding balloons; he’s both cross- and goat-legged, and he’s playing a game of chance or chess with a particularly luminous baboon, who seems to have the pieces’ patterns pegged. there’s a cloud in one of the upstairs rooms, thundering forth on the subject of idols, and one of those who’s gathered to listen to the lecture carries “Prince of Cats” among his many titles. further up (above the attic) there’s a gathering of garuda, mantling their mighty wings and trading tales of the times they t[r]ick[l]ed the Buddha.
she’s ga[s]ping and giggling as we move through this crowd; i hold tight to her hand. at mid-our-night, she asks me aloud (while her half-doubtful look needs my name): how did we come here, what was our passport or portal? i reach to her eye, brush away sand, and tell her, as i do every night the same: a love like this is more than enough to render us immortal.