succinct

interviews, scrambling, tally marks. quiet lines. from your mouth. from mine. quiet lines. connecting, dividing, creating boundaries. quiet lines from which we hang, brightly. like explosions in the sky, in tiny dioramas, made of shoe boxes. suiting we should exist where so many people have dug their heels.

just as always, i get more than most, but never enough to satisfy my craving to get it all. to understand. to get around the get around and get to the point. the point which has stuck me, like a pig, over the fire. burning in rotations, in slow motion. so slowly, it feels good. so slowly. like love. and before you know it, your insides have spilled out over the table for all to see and rifle through.

it's not even necessarily a bad thing. it just is. we're not necessarily a bad thing. we just are. were. hanging brightly, from quiet lines, in tiny dioramas. succinct.

spring is here. people shed their many layers. i shed my many layers. and it feels good. it feels good to feel so light again. to hide my face behind sunglasses, and look out at the life that surrounds me. i open my eyes, looking up, i stretch my arms out to the sheets beside me. i open the blinds and let the sun shine in.

it's such a small town. we see people. all the time. we see people we pretend not to. we find ourselves disheveled, crossing a lamp-lit street, eyes on the sidewalk. it's such a small town. we see people. all the time. people we've never met, from places we patron. and we wonder when we'll finally meet them. or if we'll keep running into the people we've met. if we'll finally stop pretending not to see them. if we'll fall into each other like the lovers we were. like the lovers we never were. it's such a small world. quiet lines oh so everywhere, connecting tiny dioramas around a classroom. all these little people looking out, being seen.

and we think of the people we want to see. the things we want. the quiet lines we hope to speak. succinct.