a little poetry
operator.
Of course I would like to make a call! I dialed, didn't I? I tried my fucking best. And now you tell me to hang up and try again, as if nothing had transpired between us, as if nothing had changed. What kind of twisted game is this? I don't need help. I don't need help. I will not hang up and I will not dial again. I will not dial my operator. What makes her "my" operator, anyway? She's not "my" operator, she's everyone's operator, and she doesn't care for me at all. Unless... Are you saying that she is omniscient, all-seeing, does she have a million eyes like a fly or a god? Is she really mine? How wonderful if I could have that faith, if I could believe for a moment that she is "my" operator, that she listens to my tones, that she cares whether I hang up and try my call again. That she hears my conversations, like the other day, that she heard my tears, that she understood them, that she listened to our horrible conversation and that although she sympathized with your side, she knew that I was in the right... I could respect that kind of operator. I could believe in something like that. I could hang up and dial again as many times as she wanted me to, just to hear her voice. I could fall in love with that kind of operator, take her to Paris, to the Tokyo Stock Exchange. We could lie in bed and she would whisper sweet nothings to me: "All circuits are busy... Are circuits are busy... The number you have called has been disconnected..." Mmm...
