There Are No Safe Choices. Only Other

You Know What Else Is Hot?" Said A Nameless Blonde As She Put Her Arm Around The One Black Girl. "what?" "bisexuals." "totally. Well, Not Like Real Bisexuals Who Are Just Sort Of Your Everyday People, But, Like, The Kind Of Bisexuals You See In Magazines Wearing Nothing But Body Paint And Kissing Both Boys And Girls To Promote A New Single." "totally, Totally Hot.

She Smiled As Sweetly As A Show Poster For The Glorified, All-american Ziegfeld Girl Just Before Dumping Her Second Cigarette Into Wally’s Fresh Cup Of Coffee.

What Do You Feel? I’ve Never Been Asked This Question Once. None Of Us Has. We Aren’t Supposed To Feel. We’re British.

She Was Tired Of Being Told How It Was By This Generation, Who’d Botched Things So Badly. They’d Sold Their Children A Pack Of Lies: God And Country. Love Your Parents. All Is Fair. And Then They’d Sent Those Boys, Her Brother, Off To Fight A Great Monster Of A War That Maimed And Killed And Destroyed Whatever Was Inside Them. Still They Lied, Expecting Her To Mouth The Words And Play Along. Well, She Wouldn’t. She Knew Now That The World Was A Long Way From Fair. She Knew The Monsters Were Real.

In A World Beyond This One, That River Goes On Singing Sweetly, Enchanting Us With What We Want To Hear, Shaping What We Need To See In Order To Keep Going. In Those Waters, All Disappointments Are Forgotten, Our Mistakes Forgiven. Gazing Into Them, We See A Strong Father. A Loving Mother. Warm Rooms Where We Are Sheltered, Adored, Wanted. And The Uncertainty Of Our Futures Is Nothing More Than The Fog Of Breath On A Windowpane.