I almost told you, we must resist asking what it means when we haven’t yet determined what it is. But I grew bored; I’ve never been much lit up by resistance, a heavy sprinkler on the same clipped lawn. For what is there to resist besides the sun? I prefer insistence. To insist that we won’t know what it is; we will only run our fingertips through the traces. We turn from the spectacle not because it dazzles us but because we want to see the faces of our fellow theatergoers. The trouble comes when they too turn, and they face our glancing faces.

I hate them!

I mean it!