adam
There's not much time and there isn't any time and time seems to really be running out quite rapidly, faster than before really, and I don't know how to slow it down or stop it but I know there must be a way because things just can't continue the way that they have been continuing lately and have been for some time now, they just can't.
(Phat, dope, gnarly, sick, bad, nasty.) In the good way or the bad way? The bad way: she's dying.
The future is. I dream of it and sometimes I see its face, like a stranger passing by that looks just like a friend, or maybe someone familiar. Like deja vu.
I held myself because nobody else could. The elasticity of my skin, the foreignness of the texture, escaped me even in the moment of intimacy. We were together and I was alright.
Everyone always tells me I have a very specific scent. Alisa once described it as a good smell mixed with a bad smell to create a good smell. I think it's a combination of the deodorant I've used since I was 12, showing every few days, and lots of daydreaming.
Genevieve slit her wrists in third grade. Well, I was in third grade. She was in fourth. She didn't go very deep with the kitchen knife. She said that the way her dog was looking at her made her not want to do it, so she only half did it, not really committing to life or death or anything. She said the counselors were annoying the way they pulled her out of class all the time.
Ruffled and rumpled, the light pours in from the window and soaks them. The slept-in bed somehow conjures up thoughts of cut lemons, cobblestone paths, and bicycles. The uncertainty if they will wake up in the same room the next morning is the most interesting part of the day though.
Like on Buffy, she became a lesbian and a witch. Or like that tree that Alison and I sat under. I don’t think we had food but we could have had food. But I do remember the way the sun came through the sinewy branches onto her and me and us. And the way that squirrel looked at us.
I think of the Kindle and that makes me sad. I don't have one, and as I type this I look past the screen to see hundreds of lovely books arranged by color on my shelves. It seems religion books like to be purple. And I have a lot of orange Penguin classics. I will never read so many of them; they are like sort of distant family members and I only know their names.
The tadpole, and then the frog. Amphibians are so flexible. I wish I could live on both land and in the sea, having legs when I need them and gills when I need them and lungs and fins and whatever I need.
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