odds n' ends
どこでもいいよ
Tension on the G string is a soft, onerous sound. Like an aged mule, wailing. I dig into the rosin because I do not practice quite enough. And the difference between my fingers and this strange piece of wood is how a person who lives aimlessly in the present greets another who lives aimlessly in the past. I am hurt by this revelation of course, but I take it as my responsibility to tame it.
Someone drops ten thousand dollars for a booth somewhere, and they spend the night swaying in the dark. They close their eyes and see flashes of neon, but that is only a relic that does not complement the surrounding ostentatious pastels. There is a pattern here that we have interrupted. Let us leave quietly for now. I have a pattern too. Like the way I forget how to implement merge sort but I remember the way you peel your oranges. Nails digging into the apex at O(n log(n)). Your tongue sours. An unsavory commentary on normalities only reinforced by the pervasion of habit. Foreign slurs and alien wares. In an empty apartment, there is a goofy lad who sets his expiration date to that of canned pineapples. I promise you this is only a coincidence. He does not even like fruit. The night air must have brought something to me. The top of my right cheek burns saline and light. Hydration is recommended anywhere, but that’s a little unfair. Do you remember how the squirrels get fat before they die. That was a time when my eyes were still occupied.
I put up lights not because I miss home, but because I miss the notion of being home. This is a state of synthesized high. My guilty pleasures include replaying my own snap stories and sipping Horizon Organic milk at midnight. There is always a self-appropriated refrain between ordinary calm and moods like tonight. We talk shit sometimes. |
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July 2019
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