I don’t go to many parties, where glass after luminous glass
is long-stemmed, and the poor little olive bumps by itself
in a hollow. Perhaps as a consequence I don’t know many
pretty people in ways I’m told might matter. I’ve seen
first hand how swiftly transactions can take place and change.
One moment a famous writer plucks an acolyte out of the lunch line,
addressing him by his pet names; the next, she’s regaling everyone
with tales of how the mediocre borrow, and the great ones steal.
In response to Via Negativa: Bump in the night.