i am very conscious of your body language, trevor. i see you hunched over like that, brooding, like “the thinker” except you’re leaning sexily against a wall. cigarette dangling from your lip. trying to damn hard to make me want you. you give off this aura of mystery, like you’re some kind of enigma, but we all know, especially when we go to bed with you, or when we go to dinner with you, or even five minutes alone at a bar–we know who you really are; a nervous, anxious wreck of a man desperately clinging on to some semblance of humanity. it’s tremendously obvious, and it’s almost funny how dead-set you are on trying to hide it. it’s like trying to hide the stench of body odor with dab of water to the armpits. your energy permeates you, it infuses you, it anchors every aspect of your being to the earth. and we see it. we all see it. we watch you wallow in it while you attempt to give off this concept that you’re okay. well, you’re not, trevor. none of us are. so drop the bullshit and just talk to me.