William

From the open window of his bedroom comes the blue-velvet glow of a neon martini glass, the catchy, electronic sounds of “The Postal Service,” and the comforting sight of a young man unwinding from a day at work. Settling in with one leg draped over the arm of the chair, and the other tucked beneath him, he momentarily holds the San Diego air in his lungs, exhales, finds the best word to describe himself in more than twelve letters, takes a sip of chilled Heineken, and misspells “invovled.” “Ah Christ,” he says, contemplating his typing skills, “where would we be without spell check?” His profile is presenting a number of challenges. For one thing, he’s limited to language, and (next to his spotty renditions of marvin the martian) it is one of his lesser features—but he’s improving. The clinical text on a web page lacks his welcoming smile and cheerful eyes; so to make up for it, he writes another word, “enthus…,” sips again, “iasm.” “This feels like applying for Petco,” he admits to himself, “and then having to sell a chew toy to a turtle.” In an attempt to appear deep, he opens a book on his desk, he copies the wise words of Lao Tzu, "In the beginning of heaven and earth there were no words, words came out of the womb of matter; and whether a man sees dispassionately to the core of life or passionately sees the surface, the core and the surface are essentially the same, words making them seem different only to express appearance". But then he questions his purpose. Must he sell his most valuable assets--the only things he can never give away? Like his generous heart, his boundless mind desiring all that life has to offer, his creative dance moves in the glow of the club lights? “Yes,” he admits.