'It occured to me yesterday that I'd never seen a baby bleed. Never once have I seen a young, small human emit blood from a fissure in the skin that encloses its virgin organs, organs which one would imagine were pink, moist, supple. The idea of a baby bleeding is such a gargantuan slur on the fabric of middle-righteousness; child injury or death is amongst the most offensive of concepts to any bipedal hetero-professional breeder, but is it because they truly love the child - surely a gurgling, puking mass of inchoate flesh is difficult to love, especially one that causes such agony to the new mother during birth - or is it because the death of a child, itself little more than insurance on their own mortality, represents a fissure in the skin of their illusions? - the abrupt demise of the freshest possible manifestation of their own flesh, way before their own has decayed to the point of flatlining, and thus a threat to the body of meaning they have contrived about themselves, whose code, airtight as a balloon, relies on there being consistency of content and little elasticity of form. Babies, who spend most of their early months closer to the asphalt than we ever dare draw near, never bleed; if they die, they die intact, unpunctured, whole(some) and tragically. When a baby does bleed, its proprieter-parent's body of meaning is loosed unto the ether, and with it their belief in their capacity to love the offspring; and therein lies the true source of mourning.' And with that conclusion, I returned to my place of work armed with a pomegranite and a bejewelled sheath of revelation, content, and empowered by the stoicism of my umbilicus to tangential spheres, despite the best(ial) attempts of work's deadening klaxon to have such portals annulled. Another day in paradise.
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