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It's just a ringtone.

I really couldn’t help myself. My fingers were thinking as the passage of red lights flew by me, energy circulated around me, I awaited a family message, in the midst of a lot of not caring. It’s hard to say what I was thinking, or what my mind was up to tonight… I was looking forward to a hotel bed and shower, a good talk with the family, and a long time sleeping. It was hard to say what was going on, but in a world where honesty is applauded, how is it that you fear in saying the truth?

Ha, I smiled. I knew enough, I said to myself.

Let me tell you a story, filled with creativity and beauty, with madness and disguise, with a sweet goodbye and a timely hello. 35 was the number, or perhaps it was 92, the answer, is really up to you. Pour the vodka onto an empty canvas, and sprinkle it with lemon. If I’m feeling crazy, I’ll throw in some black beans, and make it a dish. I’m sure I’ve lost you by now, but what’s the point in reading words that make sense anyways? But maybe, just maybe, you read that, and got what I meant. Got what I meant when a serialized message didn’t make it all the way through, when a blank page fills with color, and yet no image is to be found. There’s a beauty in similarity which feeds me happiness day by day, but a truth which feeds me reality, as I try to paint a watermark with oil. A drop falls onto a key, the letter ‘A’ it seems, the canvas keeps dripping, as I watch the stain bring life to a board that has never had its buttons pressed, to a board that saw the bottom of the world and kept going, because 36 in 28 was more of a goal than an impossibility.

Let me forget. I don’t do that thing which others crave. I don’t sorrow or break down, even as we jump off 13,000 and scream because death is so near, and living suddenly feels even fucking better. The rush of adrenaline speeds through your system, a tiny bit to the left you say, and then it’s perfect. Your moment of helplessness is accompanied with perfection, for a split second, you let yourself live, and then crawled right back in, and hid in that same shell that sought for the heroin that made your system shine. Yeah sure you had your moments of glory, the rushing heartbeat and scandalous memories, one phrase that isn’t stop does just that, but who knows what it might be, as ‘peanut butter’ echoes down the complex.

And so gently, they carry on. They take a stroll and watch the sun rise, I smile and can’t believe my eyes, he says he’s sorry, she remembers the colorful pages that had long ago been stained by that one night, and then her memories darken, as the knows, forgetting is simply not an option. Perhaps it wasn’t meant to be, and perhaps it never will be, its hopeless she told herself, but somehow, he knew, it really wasn’t.

qk

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