"They were dubious as hell.": a musing on past doings and undoings.

"Is this your girlfriend?" they asked, bemused.

"No" I said darkly.  "That photograph came with the wallet."

"Are you a collector?" they asked, coming back as quizzical as anything.

"Of hearts?" I asked in return.  "Of cunt rinds?"  I wiped my hands on my jeans, and looked around, as if not seeing where I was earlier, like I was just now taking in the scenery.

 They were dubious as hell.  Which was close enough to meet me near the mark, because I was being kind of cagey, noncommittal as anything, not wanting them to catch me in a good one, like what they did to other people.

"I don't have no collections of women, hearts, nor money" I said.  In my head, I could hear some 70's music.  Jefferson Starship.  The singer seemed to be talking about cunnilingus, which was an oddity at the time for FM radio music.

Then in my head, Seals and Croft, "we may never pass this way again".

It was pretty enough music, but I thought kind of mournful that it was only a thought to being with.  And what would have been wrong with that?  I mean the screws put sugar on their corn, sometimes butter, so things like, come full circle, you know?  Tony the Tiger in the mornings, random tapping on the pipes in case someone was paying attention further down the line.

And at the same very moment of innervation.  But so many moments had come and gone, so many of them had left my orbit, and some were less than memories, dead too far gone to be gossamer ghosts, nay, more faded even that that.

But its like heart trauma, old scars, where they can examine the heart and see old scars, seeing that there had been old heart attacks that the patient had went through, just come through on their own without Aspirin or the electric boogaloo.

As was the way of the saying, "its not what you know; its what you can prove", and we had people beating the message all around, saying like it was some kind of strange tribute being built, a pyramid or the Hanging Gardens.  But not so, for it was all belly-ache and people standing in line, and so forth.  Why, in the final analysis it looked like cat-fishing, satire, and of stolen data; when complaint was made about the stuff being thrown back in my face, of course, "its all in your head".

But its just their way, you know?  One admitted it was satire instead of some strange kind of tribute.  Private data, like text messages, emails, offline stuff on electronic devices and so forth.  Not as a tribute, but something that could be complained about en masse.  Sometimes provoking a death, other violence, and sometimes doing worse, functioning on a massive scale, like worldwide.