“Let us toast to animal pleasures, to escapism, to rain on the roof and instant coffee, to unemployment insurance and library cards, to absinthe and good-hearted landlords, to music and warm bodies and contraceptives… and to the “good life,” whatever it is and wherever it happens to be.”—Hunter S. Thompson, The Proud Highway: Saga of a Desperate Southern Gentleman, 1955-1967 (via dormio)
I woke up this morning thinking of you. Going to bed much the same.
You’d be surprised at the thoughts that have crossed my mind, maybe even flattered but I will never share them for fear that you will take the things I say and misinterpret their meanings so that I seem hopeful, and much too eager for a one way ticket into your bed so I’ll keep things simple:
I remember the day I met you. magnets, pulling us together how much of our time have we wasted, faking it? too many hours, the pull of the clock instructing us manually on the removal of our shells; our clothing to the floor your smell, intoxicating and I just want to continue breathing it in, even if I know that someday it’ll kill me. Kill us. this isn’t love, or even a distant cousin.