Slowie is still traveling.

“I continue to think that sex gets me to love.”

“It’s like a finisher to you?”

“What?”

“I don’t know.”

“I just think it is in an entirely different realm. It is behind a cut in the sky. Not the backwash of the bedroom.”

“You’ve traveled.”

“I’ve traveled. I’ve woke to anguish looking. I can’t find what sex is attached to other than ventilation. There is nothing under the bed.”

“What?”

“It is like all the holiness dies, and my makeup is smeared and my stockings are cut.”

“I’m picturing that.”

“Of course you are. And I’m out here picturing a ‘state’ that seems beyond the sky.”