Artifice, craft, life are short and drive you all over. 
 
Making out, I can drop the questions and shoot for craning my mien; by squinting everything visceral is scattered. (Behind artifice there’s an interaction lab.)  
(Behind life, a free agnosticism. Easy sway. You’re taken up on your offer.) 
Beaten up hulks pour vodka that swirls in determined tones. A film clip with multiple data fields and a crew of deft extras in malaise, one supported by another grabbing a ring thru a rope, dignifying pain.  
 
I’m told you’d prefer not to watch. Using your voice, better to ask a friend or two to make you hurt, pretending they are you, falling mute.