What if we buried our heads in the hot and steamy folds of our lives? The sweet smelling oven of forbidden something or other. What if we undressed our lives like a lover we met at the mall in a prim and proper woolen skirt, with pantyhose holding the wave her body longs to make, and her beige bra digging into the sandy shore of her back? What if we dared to lay down with our lives and kiss its hair, and between its unkempt legs, and slap it a little just the way it likes? What if life opened up for us after just the right amount of licking? What if we turned to life like a stranger, placed a soft hand on its cheek, and told it it was loved? What if life wanted to lay down in the subway car and bite us just a little bit? What if we let it? What if everyone watched? What if strange life to turned to strange life and a whole subway car stood facing one another instead of away? What if someone started humming, and the guy with the violin started playing along, and the opera singer kept time, and the piano tuner cried thinking of all the notes he had personally touched. What if we realized each life was note that had to be held just so, or it wouldn’t sound?