Idios

At the museum of stupid questions, the curator is hunched down over that one thing you asked that one time when everyone laughed because of course. He lets his fingers hover over the contours of your embarrassment, the yellow light above gentle but sufficient to reveal the delicate crinkles of your desperation to be understood. He wants to tend to your loneliness, to treat it well. Somewhere somebody still believes that a *we* exists, even though the bridges people build keep breaking. Long after you've settled down inside your own cynicism, the curator will be there, hanging the ruins on the wall and worshiping your isolation like a work of art.