Magic is not real but loopholes are, and he read the fine print. All that energy, just barely repressed. Like a suitcase you need to step on to close, water clinging to the rim of a full glass, a body with too much blood. Poor thing. I will carry its load for a while. But I have to give it back sooner or later darling. I am the wind during a heatwave, a flowing fountain on the dryrock, an embrace where my head fills the longing between his head and shoulders. But the sun keeps pounding and wellsprings run dry and film reels keep spinning. And if he stays too long past the intermission he’s going to get a nebula screen printed on his insides, all black purple and blue. And there’s a good chance he will sink below the floor to somewhere lower, somewhere darker, for a while. But he will be okay. That I can promise both you and him, darling. He will be okay.