I've never been able to write so insanely right behind you with the fan on the ground pumping full blast air around the room, making posters of van gogh or hand-drawn, permanent marker constellations waver maniacally. You can't take the change in your pockets with you when you die. You cannot forget the feeling of cheap laminate floors and blinds bashing lightly against the window frame with a wonderfully futile view of rooftops outside. Some junipers visible with jupiter high in the sky on clearer days. We will fill our calendars with days of love fulfilled to the greatest extent. We can reach our hands outward and feel the warmth of full days. Of full daze when everything else is left humbled in a bleary haze of wasted talk.
Why would astrology ever be interesting when astronomy exists?
It is certainly interesting for me, high young confused woman with dress like waves on shallow shores, and the opposite dynamic of the hazy other young woman, nameless and proud for the fact of sexual tension in the air as palpable as criminal envy for those on death row... It is certainly interesting for me, if my astronomy serves me, that, if I'm not mistaken, you are a damned fool to pretend your personality is based around the arbitrary and vague words of astrological pseudo-intellectual writers. They write to fulfill a quota and are denied so absentmindedly that they commit suicide so freely in the streets of pseudonyms and false prophets.
Who... high astrology-believer.... are you fooling?
The devout Christian argues with the devout astrologist. He says, "who do you think wrote those things? They are applicable to everyone for a reason."
Do I need to point out the irony, sleeping beauty?
I've never been given the freedom to believe in such beautiful days as simple solutions to the drudgery of everyday life. What happens when every day becomes a novelty? What happens when you receive what you've desired for so many years... Does that mean success.
Sleeping so peacefully with beautiful and gorgeous vixen, made of tonic water and pineapple cores, ripe to the marrow, I wonder frequently how the hell this conversation continued and how we were both able to maintain a controlled stop at parallel park stop signs without intent to bash up a few bumpers.
We shared intimacy, unlike you. You talk of petty things and I painfully feign interest. How can I communicate with such a black hole of conversation?
My idiosyncratic method clearly did me no justice.
I wonder how we are even still alive together, with so many opportunities to die in poisonous spitefulness. In derelict inhibition and murderous cowardice.
The only light in this lovely darkness is spawned from my creative absent-mindedness. I allow my whiskey-and-coke breath to determine how day was. The spinach and egg mix I ate this morning, in addition to all of the shopping triumphs have lead to something productive. The appetite of love and drink and productivity have all been appeased... so what else is there?
There is sleep next to a beautiful woman that you cannot deny whom you love. There is erroneous conversation abound all transactions of saliva and crucial bodily fluid, the heroin addicts beneath the bridge speak of such poetic times in introspective illumination. You are nothing different. You will about this as a period of love and of the acceptance, analytically, of love and of love with sexual consequence.
There is time for sleep. To share pipe dreams of public humiliation in dark deserts of clouded thought. There are dreams of weird and pathetic grandeur. There are the cutest women sleeping peacefully in the arms of father time. They wake up older with knowing they are growing. They grow less dead each day and accept their simple fate. A summer of love, with the quality of dreams, will satisfy their souls unquestionably.
