It’s been trick or treat all year, though no one’s been to my door. News is a petulant child running loose on the airwaves, heavy on the trick, sparse on the treat; scare stories to chill the hearts of the most level minded souls. My curtains remain open, I’m just willing them to knock, though I cannot pass out candy. This year have my TV, a year’s subscription if you life — so long as you take it away.
The mime artist confronts me, lithe and contorting, nuancing as best she can with her eyes. Masked and distanced, her gestures rage out loud and proud, yet I do not understand, I can’t even take her hand to console, to reassure; so now she’s rubbing her eyes with feigned clenched fists but the sorrow doesn’t translate; such sobbing falls on deaf ears, yet it screams to my soul: She’s in her world, I’m in mine, dimensions apart, both of us born again infants deprived of facial cues.