two of my friends make love in the other room. this is pillow talk right now--who did what to whom. this is a month divorced from what happened. this is two and a half years divorced from what should have happened. this is now. not then.
different girl. x and h cut up the relationship. these are words spoken in soft, civil tones: defined--this is mucky business. this hurts but at least it's a foundation, a truth, the reality. there is an 'i' in 'reality' but there is no 'we'.
i throw-up what i didn't eat. i wouldn't believe this was possible if i hadn't done it before. this might be because of the cigarettes or the stress or it might be life. i have no idea. throwing up, though, feels like the right decision--the only time that i feel o.k. well, that's kind of a lie. at least when i smoke i feel like i'm doing something; working towards an end.
ah, dear coitusers, what is to be done? is it better to admit a dream is dead well after the chase of that dream has ended, or is there more honor in continuing the quest in some vain hope that one day we'll run faster, stretch our arms out further... and one fine morning--so we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.
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