Harris Sockel

You will kiss my triceps hard and suck the blood from my upper arms and it will tickle.

I’ve always hated the word vacation. I don’t want to vacate anything, don’t want to be vacuous, and, when I took biology, vacuoles were the things I hated the most.

I feel like my body is an inside joke and I’m on the outside.

I came because I wanted someone to sit me down and teach me things – to explain exactly what a sky is, what stars are, what a city is.

The next time we feel the full force of our computers’ retina displays and graphics cards. The next time we either die or turn our heads toward each other and feel it like a reflex.

I wish I’d hugged you until we became a Pulitzer Prize-winning portrayal of hugging. Until we could be the picture next to the word “hug” in the American Heritage Dictionary.

I thought we’d eventually stop pretending that there are boundaries and just open up the sockets in our bodies and tether ourselves together, human to human, a living four-lane highway running between us.

This is what happens when you live with people in locked boxes.

I do not know if our watches were this big on 9/11, but I imagine they’ve grown since then.

This is not Your Life. It’s just life. Not really yours. Stop thinking you can control things and make everything just so and accept that this will end, the leaves will get brown and fall, and you’ll step on them and get the flecks on your feet.

I walked into a glass box on Fifth Avenue & 56th Street and paid $685 for a piece of waffled wool. A sweater, the color of black top.

When our turn came, I was led with a group of thirteen auditionees through a warren of concrete hallways to a small windowless room with plastic folding chairs arranged in a half moon.