Friday, January 2, 2004

That Oily Blue Whisper

I leaned back and sank further into the overstuffed red pleather couch. For the first time, I realized that there was music playing. Coincidentally, it was the same colour as the walls.

A washed-out yellow-orange.

James Brown. After listening for a time, I decided that James Brown was perfect for E trips. Surely, he was high on E when he wrote Papa's Got a Brand New Bag. It just made so much sense that night. With my eyes closed, I was alone and two thoughts swam through my mind: (they are lost in the imperfection of memory).

At some point whilst wandering the wilds of solitude, I lost my ability to lie, I loved everyone, and everything felt amazing.

I ended up out on the back steps with Tina beneath a big blue moon, in the warm summer air; it felt like tepid water to me, and Tina's forearm seemed to melt into my own. We became one that night, sharing everything important with one another: our hopes and dreams, our loves and desires.

Everything that was good.

Her fingertips stroked part of my neck for at least three hours while we talked - I thought for sure she had worn a groove into my flesh, and I'd have a permanent reminder of that night.

But this was not a bad thing.

Finally, at about half past eternity, we started to get chilly as the sun came up. Heading into the house that morning, we found everyone peaceful and passed out, scattered carelessly about the room. Staking out a spot on the floor, we fell asleep in each other's arms. Perfect. Platonic.

The next day - no, the next week - was horribly mundane.

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