If I hear you once more say the word love, I’ll take the imaginary child, his hair gleaming on my shield, or reflected in your Subaru’s window, and present him on a platinum platter for the Cyclops to devour for the world’s amusement. This is commensurate with the nature of my powers and the natural state of a healthy relationship, not to mention the good of the polity. There is a jigger of brandy on the sideboard, if you like. And I hear a Sirk is playing at the Odeon. Most of the army has been ripped apart on the plain, and merely waits for the pyres. But a plate of sandwiches and some civil conversation would be the least one could expect after all we’ve meant to each other. Through the bluish muslin curtains, I can hear someone whisper you can see the sails on fire. Like floating fireworks, or flashes in the eye. Let’s talk about the future, or futures, life as a commodity. Let’s fall on the sword of a memory of chance. Let’s put on a record of Noel Coward. Let’s dance.