He identified strongly with hearts for some
reasons: one, the first, the most elfishly imp-
ortant, was the love they re-
presented every time he saw or touched one.
Second, his heart was white in-
stead, at home, on his hearth: not black by
any means: he never meant that harm that
black cruelly re-
presents in the tongues we kiss and
Although black – in other re-
spects – he identified with strongly,
he hunted not, and was no hunter of black.
So a white heart he was: neither black nor red.
Third, he felt that maybe love
was sacrifice after all: a heartbroken heart both
described itself naturally and de-
scribed itself using itself to de-
scribe its very entity.
Fourth, he now needed a mod-
so much, he was prepared to sub-
e in electronic life, maintain
his being only in that false
world he realised had been
assigned him long ago, and reach plac-
lying agreement to fake what was left
for what was life if not an act-
As that terrible man so long ago said:
“The art of communication
doesn’t lie in saying what you believe
but in believing what
you say.” Hey-ho. Ho-ho.
And he would now communicate this way,
and the modus vivendi would be lies
all the time, and reality
would never quite match the truth, and the
truth – like him, like the love he would
no longer wear as a badge of collect-
age – would diss-
e in digital stroking: a stroking of ego
And love your memories dear people: for they’re all