So it turns out, she was a passing thought. A loud, obnoxious, foghorn of a passing thought.
Maybe her memory is just so full of other people’s fragments of seashells, bits of colored glass, and dusty marbles lost and found under the bed, that she can’t understand what other people fill their minds with.
Chariots of Fire.
There’s something about train rides on dreary Sunday mornings.
Maybe it’s the way the air is stale with sighs and the feeling of ‘well, who the fuck cares anyhow’.
Maybe it’s the subtle vomit splattered up the train door, in fermented milk chunks.
Maybe it’s the whirr of the train on the tracks muttering about monotony, reminding you of that sinking feeling in your stomach where you think ‘despite the perceived dynamic of the train shuffling through this industrial countryside, the whirr is really only static’.
It’s not so bad. It’s like the calm after a storm.
Of your own stupidity.
Don’t lie; you loved it.
"She thought it would be fun to try photography
She thought it would be fun to try pornography
She thought it would be fun to try most anything
She was tired of sleeping"
please please please don’t let anyone knock on the door. My heart jumps out of my chest at the prospect of a footstep.
There’s just a quality in that voice. I always feel bad for the poor boy who carries that quality in his voice when he talks to me.
She's the last one on the island, give or take. Dreary as fuck.
There she was, waiting for Godot.
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