there’s a man with a pair of scissors and a pile of magazines. he cuts. he cuts out her face and puts it here. cuts off her hands and puts them there. he smokes viciously. he flips through each magazine, frustrated hands. he cuts and pastes on whiteboard an obscene shrine. the eyes most important, seductive and sleek, predator eyes, eyes focusing on prey, eyes without remorse. her body means nothing, interchangeable, always. and beside her, him in a tux, him in speedos, him with a fine hair cut, him cut up and in pieces. him torn from glossy pages, him never as he was. perfect and whole.