by Carolyn Dille

Thalia in the lab

They tell us so much about ourselves, their white and pink and gray bodies scooting into holes tinier than tangerines just before they pull a Jerry, breathing on their nails and chest-buffing them. And amazing us as much as Ariadne ever did. Do the techs notice the winks? Or the pause in namaste as their souls vanish into the voids between death and regeneration? Could we put our hands there?  Hey, they let us into the mini-secrets of adrenaline and endorphin, the Raging Pleasure rides we can’t get off, the latest immortality game. And so amenable, whether we Hulk them up, tweak their genes toward infinity, or at the end send them to Doom 3. Something to be said for sharing. It’s so hard for us to see inside, tripping over our oily retreads, smoking our beards and re-upholstering our breasts.