To become a philosopher, you must first understand
genealogy: how one thing comes from another. Try this:
You want to go to gay bars because the girl you love
is a Marxist. Because you want to be the type of
Marxist-loving-Marxist girl who goes to gay bars,
eats ricotta salads. Because Melbourne bars are
cheap and Melbourne trams are expensive. You
wanted a simple solution to the trolley problem but
we were outside the free tram zone and neither of us
had a ticket. You wanted to talk about big
concepts like love as though they’re worth anything.
Because no-one can blame you for it anyway, can they?
I wanted an alternate world in which my body had
been baptised & I could be an old queer, back when
queer wasn’t something we could say. And I’d teach
you about loving with teeth, then fuck you like we’re
burning alive. Because no-one could blame us
for it, for the way we’d spend our love: fixing up
presupposed trolleys so that no-one would be killed
by them ever again, the glare of the presupposed sun
smudging the rim of your presupposed glasses. She
asked me if I thought there was a solution to every
dilemma and I said yes. I said if we’ve figured out
trams, my god; we can figure out trolleys