March 1st
The truth is, I’ll never in a million years be over it. The moment you take the teeming bowl of city and mix in your inner slop like toppings, you lose that chance. That chance of separation between self and environment, of neat delineation between who you are and who you’re destined to become. Not destined so much as self-determined. We’re like slot cars in their tiny tracks that keep on running, but only for as long as you push quarters in.
I want to gash the whole surface of this earth into neat slashed dirt.
And there is no silence or solitude here, but occasionally there is solace. There are warm bodies and spirits that move you in unexpected directions. There is a girl in your bed and she is wonderful, so wonderful. For having hair that spills down the front of her body, snaking over her neck so that it captures a smell that you keep on smelling. And when you meet her in the morning everything feels almost exactly the same, except that this will never happen again in exactly this way. Because there is a halo of sunset over the water all of a sudden, and palm trees that have mysteriously bloomed there too as you start to realize that this is dying love. She is a sidewalk and you are an egg, cracked open now and frying in the sun. And maybe you’re her sidewalk too, well you console yourself with this anyway, saying, “we are all the eggs, latent and gooey and embryonic beneath our smooth white shells.”
