Twiddling my thumbs is so much easier, weaving intricate spiral patterns of half-hearted, half-baked cabooses of thought, so much easier than answering you.
"Your question was valid and interesting, however unexpected," wrote my advisor. Then, nothing.
Modern living is the perpetual parade of disjointed stimuli. You can always turn the tv off, but can you answer the questions it does not ask?
She wanted to play the part convincingly. I only wanted information.
Where truth has become another form of art, there can be no refutation and no response.
The meeting leading up to that email was interminable: a late start and a late finish, both despite my best efforts. Hints dropped here and there.
There can be no conversation in a sea of monologue. Each sound bite is just another offering to the silence.
To respond is to revive, whether for praise or rebuke. I have learned my lesson: never interrupt someone in the middle of a monologue--if you can't duck out in the beginning, you might as well pull up a chair.
The foreground has become the place of questions, if there is room for them anywhere in the present age. Art does its real work underneath. Kneading the background is slow and deliberate like candle wax on your naked, blindfolded body.
Except when it bombards you with prepackaged emotion-laden cadences, with all the nuance of a teenage boy who has discovered the clitoris for the first time.