the contract

I know the rules. They lie between myself and each person I meet. They are floating between blankets and sprawled out over couch arms.

Here is one of the rules: If you choose to play the game you realise that you play only as a body, a vessel. I want to be a person but people are only interested in bodies. Static bodies carved from soft pink flesh. We are trading on the black market and selling human organs for pittance.

How extraordinarily odd ... tempting, bizarre, freakish, worrying, repulsive, intriguing ... to know that if I wanted to sell my goods at a side stall in a rundown part of town I could. There is a demand for what I have. I would receive a profit for the risk involved on my part. It would be an effortless act oozing with class. Men would know my name, seek me out, open their pockets carefully to make bids. The entire concept is peculiar.

Sometimes I feel like I am foreign to this people. I like to be amongst them but I am not always with them. I am isolated on an island which consists entirely of other versions of myself. I am stepping on too many heads.