They buy and they buy and they buy things and they jump out of airplanes, greedy, insatiable, priapic, hot for the thrill. Poor things. Couldn’t delay much less deny gratification, don’t know the elusive creature will eat from your hand, tongue tickling your palm if you’re still, or it’ll sometimes slam into you and bend you over backwards in a tilt the world kiss. And there’s nothing like that thrill, the one that is just suddenly there in the middle of mundane. They’re so caught up in their pursuit they rush right past the sublime.


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