18.May.2004

"there are a lot of funky-looking people in new york!"

--

i only have chemicals for breakfast

Most of my time is penniless and free, so I've been cleaning the perished skin cells of others from my furniture, washing blankets, sheets, and trousers that barely fit anymore, and teaching myself Japanese from this silly CD ROM that was sitting on my dining room table this evening.

This CD ROM is taunting, as it's essentially merely teaching me the entirety of a present-day colloquy joust with Jubal in a foreign fucking language by way of, "Hello", "Good night", "Please?!", "Sorry", "Thank you" and "...".

There's more to this, hai? Tell me we're not being reduced to sexy sliver-tongue Asian goodness with zero substance, onegaishimasu.

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It's ubiquitously unanimous, the advice for my progression: cut losses now, pack in the middle of the night, and never, ever look back, lest I suffer the consequence of back-peddling retards with severe salivation quandaries.

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But, Jesus. I run a stained and bruised tongue against my teeth in the middle of the night during thoughts of having you, of lapping every arrogant drop from the ferny arrow on your stomach and relishing the afterglow of sensual reciprocation, but they're merely that: thoughts.

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All the neon momentum chilling in the fridge; all the blunt aspirations fizzling in my throat. I guess my darlings were correct in their outside-sphere evaluations.

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There exists, somewhere on this planet, an individual entirely capable of suffocating me with the same amount of passion I instill into them, and I guess I'm just a little sore in the ventricles and crestfallen because he doesn't seem to want to be that person, and maybe he only did briefly when I had his bottom lip between my teeth, but now it's ghost-phantom-silence-sweetness and I'm just a glimmer of intent.

Doomo arigatoo gozaimasu, sayoonara.

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time & machine