Candy Camera

He adjusts the lens to the distance of a street. Two fucking floors below him isn’t an easy angle to get, but he loves the tasty challenge. He will never disappoint his camera, in that moment when his finger applies an infinitesimal and constant pressure, and whirls the camera to catch the perfect scene. He watches them with unending fervor; he watches them every week. He loves that frenetic dance of beards and buttocks, that chaotic puddle through the foggy glass. He practically breathes to find that frantic tic-tickle of his finger against the button and the thick flick-flash of his eye against the ocular. He knows no names, no information, and he definitely doesn’t need any of that. For as long as beards surround mute circumferences, as long as buttocks spread for stiffened desires,

Gerard’s camera will be ready. Gerard’s eyes will be delighted. Gerard’s voyeurism will be fulfilled.