All I need is another close-up. Genuine reaction. Most people these days are all about the acting. Lost are the days of irreversible stories that do not change overtime, or pondered after-thoughts of the what-ifs and can-bes. This fakeness annoys me. Sitting here in the Laundromat, as the clothes dance in a twirl, the humdrum from the machine lulled my consciousness. I thought of nothing in particular as my mind slowly drifted from thought to thought, drawing the occasional blanks that gave me more relief then sanity itself provides. The purrs made by a cat, stroked by his loving mistress. Lies that do not deceive. The footprints licked into the shallow sand on a hot summer night, two a foot apart. Things I have done and undone over the years. The flickering of events cluttered in the ancient depths of my mind, repetitive in motion like that of a nagging wife who refuses to let her enstrangled husband off the hook.