Tokens

“She smells of horoscopes”

Let’s overanalyze.

Let’s self-destruct.

You can be my cardboard mother. You can be my cardboard friend. You can be my cardboard obsession. You can be my cardboard Erik.
You got caught in the rain I think. And even though you weren’t cardboard, you disintegrated, and now I’m staring at the pavement where you were, and I’m pretty sure you’re somewhere else.

You aren’t going to get off the train, are you?

How much is autobiographical?

I’ll be like Edmund. Only I’m wiser: I don’t believe in God.

“We aren’t friends anymore. Not in a bad way. Just in a real way.”

I can hear your voice.
Are you stupid or am I?

Maybe we’re growing up.

I imagine the epitome of my self-destruction is powerful, and explosive; a visual masterpiece. You would smell the burning rubber from my spontaneous combustion, and it would be lip-bitingly delicious.

People say it’s just an action, but actions don’t happen in a vacuum, they’ve got to be informed by emotions. 

And emotions are informed by actions too.

It’s not love. Or like. But there’s got to be a motivation. And then a reaction.  

How many ways can I jump off a building? I can trip, slip, feet-first, head-first, swan dive. You could push me. Will you push me? Then I can pretend that there’s someone else to blame.

Max and Lorelai.

Put your arm around me?

I can see the benefit of the cigarette.

I’m starving.