There are a lot of us. You get it, we don't fit in my hyperspace. Only I and my house of cards can be there. Everything else creates static. Everything else, when it appears, starts making that sound. The sound is an allegory of penetration. An ultrasonic laser that could pierce the rain, if it ever rained in my house. For it, I either need to add a new dimension to my hyperspace, or shriek, out-screaming the ultraviolet sky:

V.A.N.I.S.H.!

Which I’m quite successfully doing. Remember, you carelessly told me about washing dishes, and across the yard, through a window on the other side, a working man, a regular Joe with a sanding machine, was watching you. He smiled, and his teeth scraped your pots and utensils and pan lids. And at night, when you came to the same kitchen in your negligee for water, he was still smiling through two windows, and his teeth sloshed at the bottom of the carafe. You felt their weight, dissolved in the water. You could shake them, and they would actually clatter against the glass like castanets. You could pour them down the sink, and they would flow into the pipes, as if instantly turning liquid.

But you were thrilled by the sensation of the gaze. It drifted over your stomach with a convex breath, caressed your legs, scanned you in search of lust. It caused a fine tremble of ecstasy inside you; it seemed everything in his hands, everything in his gaze, began to behave like a sanding machine. You mechanically smoothed your lingerie, though it was already perfectly in order, looked carefully into his eyes, into his teeth, gulped water, closed the window, and were gone.

You both were collecting the honey of tactile sensations in that moment. Have you ever mowed a lawn? With a trimmer. You hold it tight in your hands, you swing it in an arc, left and right, you step further and further. Your movements are iron, as if you were a milling machine. And the tremor. The recoil running through you like wires, reverberating in your bare soles, in your tailbone, in the lenses of your eyes, in your skull. You are in ecstasy. The less clothes you wear and the shorter your lion’s mane haircut, the closer your sensations are to tactile nirvana. You step barefoot onto the freshly mowed wet carpet and continue to trim the next section. Your feet are irrevocably green, your smile resembles your laugh, back then, on the train roof. The cord caresses your thighs… if the trimmer is electric. If it’s gasoline…—don’t buy gasoline trimmers, please don’t. It smooths your lingerie, which is already sitting perfectly anyway.

And now the main thing. Drop the trimmer, it’ll turn itself off. A tremor still lives in your hands. It feels like a shiver. Plunge them into your 8-inch-long lion’s mane haircut. Do you feel how soft your hair has become? It’s still standing, but you can run your hand through it, as if it were the cotton of the wind. The one I caught on the train.

And here’s the question: do your fingers skillfully part the hair, or is the hair so electrified that it parts itself for your trembling hand?

Did the worker polish you with his gaze on his own initiative, or were you so electrified with tactility that the poor guy’s teeth had no better place to be?

End, then, beginning. Influence, tremor, interaction. How much can you take?

Now you can adjust your lingerie.