Because in the end we are coincidental, we are incidental, accidental beings so it makes no sense at all for me to walk up and down that same street everyday, a huge book under my arms like always, hoping to run into you and your ironic little sneer. It doesn’t it won’t it can’t but I do and I always see you and you laugh at me and call me things and I have to hide my smiles in the crook of my elbow, in the dog-eared pages of my book because you’re so predictable, predictable. The straightforward bores me so, bores me until I want to grab you by your bones, your musical poetical tragical bones and sing you something that couldn’t possibly be real because real things at least last, a little, at least for one ephemeral little second. One ephemeral little lifetime. Increments. Section off infinity with me will you? And I’ll teach you how to see art in your bones and in our incidental little lives because what isn’t just some incidental inconsequential nothing? Some collision of time and space and matter and inertia and other bullshit and the wind was blowing southeast and the earth was tilting slightly more to the left and I was there and you were there and I was snappy and moody and you were critcizing and smirking and now you’re outside my apartment at 11 and I’m laughing because I’m leaving, leaving, and you’re just arriving, arriving. We’ll never meet at the right time right place. The Right Time. The Right Place. Won’t happen, it’s as simple and straightforward as that. I hop in between blue lines and spaces and discard my feelings like old clothes and wander somewhere between the temporal and the nontemporal, and you think in cause and effect, i before e. Even so, there’s a reason, I think—because frankly I hate the rational as much as the straightforward, a reason that I imagine us driving down dark roads in foreign places and my legs propped up in your lap and me quietly laughing romantic things in your ear while you watch the world like a silent black and white film. But in the end we are just people, just perforated, detachable things, like paper almost, but not quite as permanent.
