from I Wished by Dennis Cooper..........
Maybe I’m in love with him,” the crater said. “Sorry, by him I mean the artist who’s curtailed me. You might have seen him. White hair, older guy. He believes in me. I’m not a corpse to him, I’m like a baby. And it really feels like I’m erupting again, just intellectually rather than in goo, and in very slow motion. I think that means the artist loves me too, but I’m never sure if I’m a circumstance that lets him love himself, or if my dirt is as utilitarian as traditional artists’ paint. What do you think?”
“I never used to worry,” the crater said. “But now that I’m the matter of an artist’s work, I do all the time. I worry I’m a frame. I worry I’m a decoration. I worry why I worry about that. I worry if I’m loved. In many ways, I look forward to being finished off into a cool, silent shape.” Whatever had been alive inside the crater remained, but it was like the makings of a person in a coma, and what had been gained or lost through the interjections of the artist has nothing to do with this story.
