They’re idiots. They were all idiots. Always have been, in their own knockout ways. All except one, perhaps. He was almost an idiot. Held his tousled head up, just an inch and a quarter away from idiocy. There was a faint shimmer of promise. But then eventually, he blew up too. He went up in a shower of idiot flakes, and that was that.
The idiots continue to roll in, though. All shapes and sizes; quite a staggering range of idiot ideas, they pack between them. And like all idiots, they’re self-indulgent and needy, and they enjoy being rubbed up. They have dull eyes and fast mouths, and never knew a pure idea. Men of a common sort.
I’m beginning to think he doesn’t exist. Did I call him forth from the pages of fine literature: a heady mix of mythical hero, saint, and hard-boiled shamus? Will he vanish wordlessly in a puff of logic?
He is straight, and clean and true. He can’t be bought or seduced by women of a common sort. His eyes will never glaze over. His mouth will never curl. His eyes have light and his face is kind. He only deals in pure ideas.