| dewy decimal |
2003-09-14 - 5:27 a.m.
Fold your arms below your chest. Hold your elbows in your hands. Stop dead in your tracks. Think it through and light up a cigarette.
The boys at the bar last night were so cocksure, a sturdiness in their posture, a nonchalance in their introductions. Pouty lipped, crew cut, and batty lashed. The pace of their walks can be translated in Morse code, it reads, �Operation Cock. Kuhio and Seaside.�
Every one always tells me to own �it.� Have a decisive moment and respect the outfit you�ve picked for yourself. Love is where you�re at, they say. But my hugest problem is that I am lacking faith. A romantic who has become a professional critic, I have lost my way.
All my friends have soft spots. A tentativeness in their approaches. I like that. Where is the line that is drawn before you know too much? How many times can you revise your thoughts? I think that these are the questions we don�t ask ourselves, they are inquiries that seem to be understood. I resemble an open wound; I think that is why people are drawn to me. They see their frailties in me, on a public scale. Involuntarily they fix my collar that has gone topsy-turvy. I tell them their shoelaces are untied and I run away.
I love my friends, stopped dead in their tracks over a knot in their thoughts. We dance freely with one another.