Shin Aluinis Gabralai 2

They went out into the carnival.

The eunuchs of Toralei, clad in vermillion, high on the throat drip (“My husband calls them throat droppers”), the devotees of the Plateaux-Yoni, dressed in Earth England tweed, improvising poetry as they dance, the ecstatic Malamatiya of Old Mars, reeling from their ritual psychonautic rites of the day, kissing the air with such expressions of bliss, like identity doesn’t matter, like subjecthood doesn’t matter, like he and she and their little affair … doesn’t matter.

How he envied them.

But admired, and entered, entertained — no, not justinasmuch as he could these days.

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