Simple

All the great issues of our time, distilled to a gnomic and rhetorical essence:

Should women be allowed to wear pants?

Here Come the Cavalry

Here's what I dreamed one night. I was in another city for some reason, in a hotel room, but the room was very small and crowded with books and bric-a-brac. Wellington was there too. Some time passed and it seemed I had fallen asleep, then woken up. But I hadn't really woken up; I was actually dead. I suspected I had died violently, perhaps stabbed by a robber. I looked in my wallet and saw wads of coloured paper there, but it wasn't real money. I had been robbed and the thief had replaced my good money with worthless junk. I thought that if I had been stabbed, there would be lots of blood everywhere, and I didn't want Wellington to get it on him. I looked down to see him stepping carefully around a small pool of watery liquid tinged a light pink. I looked in a mirror to find an open knife wound, perhaps two inches long but quite dry and clean, on the left side of my chest. It amused me that I should take all this so calmly. I was relieved that I didn't have to care.

We are strangers always, we insist on it, in a sort of twilight. And our strangeness is not supernatural. It is rooted in self-deceit. Its half-lit world is fear.