| dewy decimal |
2003-02-11 - 00:48:30
The nights revisited make days just seem like illusions. Not real. Figments.
The night life is a smear of lights, fingerprints on glass, connecting a week of drunk excursions into one seamless electric panorama.
I remember you in that picture. The way you were. You were never your outfit, old pal. But that was something.
Shit, do you remember? Was it Tuesday? Or Sunday? I think it may have been, in fact, for as long as I can remember...but somewhere along the line, I must have forgotten where I left our toys. When the word tonight meant something really special. How we used to run the night like grasshopper cross the fresh-cut field.
I think it was that night with my Mom's beat up Buick, parked on that dingy corner when faith came to visit. A brief stay, I know.