They shot him by the side of the road.  The sun was tangled in his hair as he leaned against the car. He fingered his chest, just over his heart, as if touching it directly. —My car broke down. —You need oil and a belt. Take off your shirt. You could consider him compromised. There is no universe where he is not a hitchhiker asking a rancher for help, where he is not plugged in like a lamp. The doctor has to crack the ribs to get to the lungs. The plumber has to pull out the sink to get to the pipes in the walls. The pornographer has to adjust the bodies to catch the slant of the light. He moves them like furniture. In the barn, the rancher spreads a blanket and their clothes fall off considerably. They are technicians. It is a compliment. They clock and  clam  like  eels  and  the  night  goes  mink.  I  want  to  be  them. I want  to  be  like  them.  I  want  to  fuck  everything  but  I  don’t  want to  be  touched.  It’s  awful,  my  watching:  the  refusal  to  participate, the ogling and smug superiority, the approximation of a true desire. It’s  fake,  but  it  isn’t.   It’s  art,  but  it  isn’t.   They’re  pretending  but  it doesn’t matter because they’re actually doing it, exhausting themselves  as  the  acting  evaporates,  peak  beauty,  that  moment—the swan dive, the little death, a bird flying into a kitchen window, open or shut, this or nothing, it strips the bolts. The cameraman is standing very quietly. It looks like he is weeping.