Even dog fights ceased in light of Paris. Their performance was too virginal to be dramatic; bitches whipped in open stadiums penetrating mysteries.

Admittedly I fled, of that there was no shame, no room for regret, no home for melancholy. The only pride that remained was hidden behind a door hovering over my flesh. It was alive, hard, lucid and voluntary in care. It continues to cast itself beneath my skirt, inside of me with uplifted eyes and modern tenderness.

After millions of years humility failed to retreat, even in light of Paris.

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