This first appeared in F.U.C.K. as volume 0444
Sometimes, that is all I have in life. Grainy, two dimensional pictures of lovers, family and friends.
My color printer has gone nutty over the last few days printing out pictures of Jeff. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to trace, not the flat image of his face, but the full image, in technicolor. To stroke each curve that is defined, to caress each dip, each pore, each mound of flesh that makes him…Jeff.
Pixilated pictures are nothing new to me. For years, transpiring from coast to coast, computer to computer, keeping my stock of pictures from everyone I have ever met with me, on 3 1/2 floppies. Pictures that by a few clicks, I can see the person, as if they were sitting in front of me. To recognize that person above and beyond this image that is flat and lifeless.
To experience the whole image. To smell and feel and taste what is already in my imagination. To grasp, to fondle, to cajole out of clothing, instead of being frustrated and angry.
A poor substitute for the human flesh.
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