| it is exactly 3:41 am. Right now, a woman with insomnia is up reading last week's faded newspaper. A fish in a stream running to a river running to lake Michigan is laying eggs in exactly the same place that it was born. Some old man in Budapest is gazing at the horizon, contemplating the existence of humanity. And in some basement appartment in the suburbs of one of thousands of thriving metropolises, two old friends sit on a couch, comtemplating their wasted youth. -0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0 He's done too many lines in his time. He's sucked too much sugar off too many c.d. cases and not enough coffee tables. Underground, he wastes away. He is so sick of himself and everything else he had to find some way to escape. He likes: the sound of Grandfather clocks in the hallway on Christmas Eve; the lazy way summer drifts past when you're not really noticing it, and when you do you don't care anyway; Polaroid Cameras; the smell of the carnival fun house; sleeping in bathtubs and waking up when the water is still warm. He does not like: people to see him when he's just got out of bed and has not yet had a chance to wash up; girls who wear too much make up; the way people jump to conclusions; hypocrites; the smell of carnies. He looked up to people before he fell down. He knows that after you've fallen, it's a long way back up, and the journey is hard. He feels like there are mountains behind his eyes and he's trying to see around them. He gets jealous of his old friend because she has a suitcase full of memories. He cannot remember feelings. He cannot remember the Original Euphoria. He does not remember what music he liked or what he cared about before the endless string of basement appartments and snowy television screens and couches missing springs. He dreams in technicolour. 0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0- She's bought too many lighters to be worth her money or the time she spent choosing the exactly the right colour and pattern. She's inhaled too much exiled breath, too much smoke, too many lost dreams that slunk away from their owners; weary and dishevelled. She has to wear long sleeved shirts all the time because she hates looking at the collapsed veins shrieking at her from beneath her skin; from below her self-inflicted wounds. She has too many memories. She has too much of a mind. She wants to do too much that she can not. She likes: parties that last for more than 10 hours where you find people that just don't seem to have homes; the smell of winter lingering in the fall air; dancing in the rain; brightly coloured shoe laces. She does not like: the way people look at her when she walks down the middle of the road; having long hair that gets whipped in the wind; when she cannot remember a person's name; not being invited to parties; brightly coloured shoes. She stepped on too many sidewalk cracks intentionally, adn she regrets it. She wants to be unique, but she feels too much like every other lost little girl who cannot find the strength to follow her dreams. She does not listen to pop music. She is not too tired for this life, but she would like to be. She gets jealous of her old friend because he does not seem to remember anything that hurt him. She remembers everything. Every half done cigarette and not-quite-finished bowl of soup and every time she shaved her legs for someone other than herself. She wishes she could not remember the faces of all the washed up junkies who'd sat with her in their endless assembly line of makeshift lives, put together in basement appartments featuring snowy television screens and sunken couches. She does not dream anymore. -0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0- It is now 3:34 am. That same woman with that same faded newspaper now has a cup of tea, and is disagreeing with some comments in the editorial. A tourist in France is trying shark fin soup for the very first time. That man in Budapest crosses the street, still staring at the horizon, is hit by a speeding delivery boy in a mail truck and is now dead. Those two old friends go back to flying. back copyright 02/12/25 |