“The place you want to go is inside
of me?” Hyacinth looks at Patrick with an all too familiar expression teeming
with confusion stitched into her lips. Patrick’s eyes roll up into the furrowed
brow of his skull like digits ensconced inside a gas meter.
“No,” Patrick explains, “What I mean
is that it is inside of each of us as a person, as human beings—there’s
something that’s inscrutable and lonely yet somehow divine and perfect inside
of each of us even when we don’t know where to go. And that’s the mystery of it
That’s the beauty of it. That’s the pain and the joy.”
Patrick then says something in
German which causes Hyacinth to put her hand up to her earlobe and say “what?”
a response which triggers Patrick to eke out the similar expression with his
eyes.
“What I’m trying to say here is
that—all these people around us, Coach M and his hardcore fuck you tyrannical
ways, Reverend Morningwood, Dr.
Kennedy-whose-making-my-life-feel-like-shit-twenty-four-seven-three-sixty-five.
The fucking Varsity Elite—all of these fuckwads are so caught up in the
grandiose illusion of their own reality that they never even bother to question
or give a fuck about anything else.
“I mean, look at Lynford of all
people. Sure, he’s fucked up and has a high pitched voice and likes to stick
his pecker in fellow members of my own gender in places I won’t even begin to
dictate in public, but I mean, he’s himself. He’s actually listening to the
time-signature of his own pulse, not to some bullhorn at the end of the quarter
or to what his fellow peers, including myself at times, think about him.
Hyacinth, “holly” Lyonowski looks
back at Patrick as if to say you have a point.
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