There is no way to go on loving in a burning building, but we do.  We worry more that the sheets are unjustly knotted, than that there is smoke crawling like omnivorous, dream-stealing spiders across the ceiling.  We worry that the blankets will never be used again; that our memories, woven into them like the smell of a corpse littering the trunk of a car, will go out of existence with the ashen cloth.  We worry we are forgetting sheets blankets and memories even now, and being ourselves forgotten.  We are twisted through the variations executed in the mere simplicity of our present accomplishment, and, buried within our perception of even the burning building, our paper hero antics are lost inside the needful anatomy fulfilled by thousands of lackluster generations acting out in the panoramic tunnel vision of individual needs.  We are of no need, but all of you need our act of unselfed selfishness.


When you, my brave fireman, look in from the municipal fire truck ladder, the glass window already vibrating from heat, you will not think of saving us.  You will understand the flames and our frenetic cross-stitchery and think:  how intricate.  Or, you will think how beautiful the disharmonies of people meeting a simple animal imperative can be.  Or, you will think omigod, the place is on fire and how murderously they hump.  Or, you will think again this is a line and not points on a line.  Or, you will think nothing at all.


Then, from the microphone tethered to your shoulder like a favored flagellum, dispatch will tell you:  there is no way to go on loving in a burning building.