its not exactly true to scale, she said. nothing that can be said into solid. i mean.
oh. well. i suppose that can be taken into consideration. all things considered. i don't know. it being one of those all considered things. obviously.
he sets the mug down at an angle, causing a quick rapping against the table. one side of the circle rolling to the other. then still. imagines a mug rolling on the edge of an infinite circle. never resting itself flat to wood.
are there, i don't know, movements against these things?
no. i mean. yes. a happiness. of sorts. a maybe happiness. a small current. but, i mean. so it has little do with it. i mean. im not sure how to make it clearer than that, really. i mean. yeah.
hm. let's say. us, together, that. i don't know. we've become clear.
i mean. its not how i think. its in movements. tastes. really cliche neo-nuclear stories with sexing and gays and a protagonist with mysteriously infinite assets and perfect skin; i mean, these are the meanings behind desire and fear. a dead run, i mean. the imagination. i don't remember myself young. i mean. i don't image the softness. the round plumpness of youth. the stumpy curves of new organs and unfamiliar bones. unfamiliar to dying. how far can this go until it doesn't? i mean, until it doesn't? forget the wind. the weight of a hand on your stomach. that goes away, mean. when it happens.
when it happens? how it happens, i don't know, is not really in the question. oldness?
the sticking sound of barefeet on hardwoodfloor. across to the counter, then back again. leaves hit the windows, shattering it. spinning around the room, the leaves push against the cabinets. pressing their veins into the ceiling. the roof grows. then time slows. and however far we had come, moved itself into the corner of a locked room that caved and lost its corners.
touch me and i'll explode. saying things i already know.
we've got our faces made for smiling, but we are weeping.
