You told me that you loved talking to me. Why, then, do you forget about me for days, and only come back to talk about your infatuation with Steve Jobs or how amazing we are together? Even then, you only come back for a few hours at most... Though once, we spent the day together, waking in each other's arms and sleepily realizing half the afternoon was gone, and hey, wanna go get a burger? That day was nice, and it makes me grin and think of Wilco doing the soundtrack of our life. I can't think of why Wilco's music makes me think of you - you listen to trance and shitty death metal. My taste in music judges yours. I know, I know what you'd say. I do always have to be right. That's why I'm not saying this to you. You'd want to get angry, and I'd want to get regretful and depressed, and then you'd ignore me until I finally realized how stupid we both were being. It always takes me coming back. I get the feeling you don't need me.

And you, Trey, you told me with wide brown eyes, and an expression I've never seen before or since (one that is more adequately imagined than described), that you weren't lying to me, that you honestly really liked me, that I was "pretty gorgeous, actually" and that you weren't just high. I rolled my eyes, and your face softened and you gained that ironic smile of yours and said, "Well, I am pretty high." That night with you, we smoked cigarettes together on your back porch, even though I don't smoke them. You told me about the ex-girlfriend who, in your own words, never leaves your thoughts. There is a story there that I will never know. You, laid-back and still mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, you remind me of all sorts of music, but namely, you remind me of Cloud Cult. You are rock and roll and snappy percussion, sir, you are violins and beautiful tinkling pianos. Are we strangers or am I you are I? Put your face on mine, Trey. We'd be terrible together, but we'd burn beautifully.

Perhaps this is why I should stop reading Emma Goldman and listening to indie rock late at night. I should be blowing the buildings up, not thinking them beautiful.

Happy Bastille Day (eve)!

I am really looking forward to death. I love my animal life but that Hell is Other People can hardly be doubted so that even if it were nothing more than a cancellation of that it would be something to look forward to. Those who hang on till the last extremity, rot inside a living corpse's shell can stand and face the hounds of hell if they want to, me, a few more years at this rate at most and I'm outta here. Who can doubt that The Undiscovered Country, should there be any at all will be better than these United Snakes?

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