Everything loses its glamour and lovely little plastic coating after a day, and what an absolutely catatonic day. I sat around trying to type up a lab report that didn’t sound like a melodrama and boarded up some windows and waited for you to casually stop by and come over because you just happened to be in the neighborhood and sort of kind of maybe wanted to see me. I don’t hope, I really don’t, I just wait for chance encounters, rely on the random, trust in the accidental, the arbitrary.
We’re just accidental and arbitrary, that’s all.
Something like dying but flickering but dying fires and pinwheels spiraling in a breeze or on someone’s lips. Something obscurely electrifying, like beautiful, mysterious people who walk down streets and seduce strangers with a tilt of their heads. Psychoanalyze me some more, like you always do, call me manic-depressive and passive-aggressive and other pretty hyphenated things. Oh hyphens. So serious, so complex. Aren’t you?
Aren’t we? We’re picking flowers from an upside down sky and tracing outlines of ourselves in passing car windows. Just for a moment, an accidental, arbitrary moment.
