The banter of life isn’t enough but in its purest form it is the only true ephemeral thing. It means as much as the things that last without lying about what it is. What lasts is the moment that was and can only be once you return to yourself without that saintly fear that hovers above us. Saints are things yet to be that we only blow smoke towards.
There was a crowd on the street that seemed very sure of itself. There’s something supernatural about the places we build. Some want people to be just like these places; neatly partitioned and suspended in time so that you may gaze at them until you know just what their point is. There is no point to the things that gather dust until the dust settles. And all things last only as long as you keep dusting them. Your eyes are glassy in the morning and in the evening, but they’re very different. Are you there when I look you? Are you only the small reactive nature behind my gestures?
I’m not these gestures, I’m much more, though I can’t express it to you. I can’t be the things I am, only an absurd shadow you see as a character; something I pretend to be out of something unclear to both you and me. It gets to both of us, and I can’t help it.
I don’t mean to be more than the futile attempts at being what I am (as much as they may come off as performative, I’m trying to tell you something.) It doesn’t really mean anything, I’m safe in the little that I am and don’t really need to be what can’t come through. I know it’s there – and I hope you do too. If you press up against me maybe you can hear it chiming through my ribcage; maybe you can tell me what it sounds like.
The evening was the smell of greasy Chinese food and spit.
August 25, 2026
est. reading time: 2 minutesThe evening was the smell of greasy Chinese food and spit. A series of continuous beeps kept us alert during the intervals.We tried to get
