Dressed up

Dressed like a dyke. Waiting for the subway in her long thin grey pants, long legs, short, spiky hair. Strictly beautiful, strictly desexed, and yet screaming with sensuality.
I'm getting used to this. Serving coffee to dykes like me, rushing around to look over their shoulders. I wasn't a dyke before I started this job, it grew on me. Around the office, I looked like a high school student the first day. Now, I'm a woman.

Stephen Crane

The wayfarer
Perceiving the pathway to truth
Was struck with astonishment.
It was thickly grown with weeds.
"Ha," he said,
"I see that none has passed here
In a long time."
Later he saw that each weed
Was a singular knife.
"Well," he mumbled at last,
"Doubtless there are other roads."

Truth is a slice of flowing life, dangling from time and space, on the verge of ripe, not yet picked and molded to become other. It's a twinge, a burp, a flash of beauty no one has and never will be able to touch with words or any form of art without being destroyed.
This is where stories start. This is where truth dies. But always, stories stem from a truth.