Men are boring, and will always be. After dinner he’ll try to kiss you, and you may concede, lightly leaning in with mild acceptance, your lips pensively sealed as you feel a tepid patch of wet on your cheek, a lost ship moving towards the mouth. You will become a name he’ll ask about years later, a face he never dared to see on his pillow thinned out by a million lies.
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Jon Rafman is a lucky man for at least two reasons: (1) his priceless sensibility is a veil through which he sees a more beautiful world, a precious one that reaches such a state through the very aesthetic of non-preciousness; (2) he, through scouring the near infinite territory of Google street views, is statistically even able to consistently find universal moments of “condensed being” which would make the greatest haiku poet weep.