odds n' ends
どこでもいいよ
The first half mint chocolate chip, the second half salty caramel. No one cares about the constellations again tonight, especially when a particularly bright airplane mimics too closely the trails of a shooting star. You point your index finger at it—see, it’s an overrated movie! This is absolutely and thoroughly not intended to be vague.
I am petty, get angry quite easily, but I do not like to think that I am a sensitive person. You tell me you are not writing parting letters to people you will see again, but I tell you my attachments do not lie with people. The fuck is a person? Ten years from now, I bet you would stop wearing Abercrombie&Fitch. So instead, this is a placebo, an elegy to memories in your stead: i. cai hong — a song associated with the immense difficulty to prop up a stupid phone so that it would record properly, warm Paresky sunlight. ii. neon kowloon. In which I discover my love for turtle jelly is almost as great as your love for pineapple cake. Almost. iii. 4loko? Everyone is drunk or high or probably both. Thank you for the yakult drinks and lending me your windowsill. And hey, I do like the way you sing, my dude. A list of things that still bother me: the occasional irritation these words bring, your lack of responsibility, my lack of sleep. When I was still a child, I saw pictures of the sea before I saw the sea properly. I remember being disappointed—it was so painfully mundane. These embellished photos, selling at fifty cents apiece, are feeding whose economy? To overcompensate, I told you that we should travel around the world someday, only separately, and you humored me.
I tell my friends that I escape a lot. I guess that, too, is another betrayal of responsibility. The multicolored pixels flashing across this tiny screen are kind of comforting, one of repetition. They remind me of more familiar scenes, like the way seasons in this town like to imitate each other. Or the way your prose is always pithy. But this is yet another example of subjectivity. The way my mother calls me every Sunday morning is a pattern as well, and sometimes, I pretend to be asleep. But year two was a quiet, little thing. The kind of quiet found nestled between retired dust bunnies and seaweed cracker bits on a Saturday night. A warm breeze outside rustles the new oak leaves and your memory drifts to something sweet. |
Authora little cynical & tired Archives
July 2019
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