True. If the members of the delicious hot springs called Harbin are any indication of that we can dip into delusions of grandeur. We walk around in shells containing our true selves. Those shells can tell a lie. Beauty on the inside can be dimmed by our perceptions of others’ outsides. People can associate themselves with others like them even as I have with older men, whom I don’t much like because at least for me sex with a beautiful woman is all I have got as a running thought. Women pick it up immediately and hide their faces, do double takes and walk in the opposite direction. Everything is true. It is a simple narrative. Desire paves the streets. Every inch of stone is hardened by the path of thought. Amour. Tenderness. Longing. Love. I still look for you. Though I am never seen. How many women have walked only to be desired? What words we could exchange? A crowded bus drives by. I listen to a French tune sung by a young woman. The cafe I am sitting in is made of hard, flat surfaces. The truth is often cold and cruel.