Writing a note to your roommate is hard when you don’t know who they are yet. It is even harder when you know you will never know. But I will write to you anyway.
the girl who said fuck frequently walked on a cobblestoned road embraced by trees. the last of few.
the man who had just been given a seven minute long motivational speech of the Most Outstanding Quality blinked. the Speech Giver, a presumably wise, interesting-smelling old man on the skywalk by the station, had disappeared.
Ryan and I sat on brown benches yesterday.
a jib crane and eventual death the caving metal roof, last century’s rust
I don’t wear a watch, I find a watch, spy on everybody, scan every wrist. Who has the time? I do, stolen, sneakily obtained by immoral means, by bending and turning my head and casually stretching to feign interest in strange black birds whispering outside the windows of monotonous chemistry classes. (when does this end?)