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My aspirations aren’t financial. They’re experiential…



You’re wickedly hot.
It’s brilliant. Like blue firelight.
And me, a mere moth.



Let me get your cheeks red…



The future you is made now.



You watch the walls when you’re bored. The couples that stick to the posters in the hallway line to the bathroom. The taxidermy lit by candlelight, and the funny shadows that strain the paint in your imagination. The bar’s foot rail is too low for everyone but you and your daddy long legs. You’ve been to this joint, even if you haven’t. It’s always the same in every city. The place where the bar is high enough to hide you from those you want to avoid, and the only thing that keeps you drinking is the music your ears have missed since pool parties in the summer of ‘97. The din is dim and the fans overhead feebly try to fan the drunks at the rail who are disrupting an otherwise mint night of icy colds and heavily poured brown booze. It’s not you, it’s them. Or it’s you. Either way, your dollar belongs to the jukebox and there’s not much that disappoints. Huzzah!



I want to be so good at something that it makes me millions of dollars I can give away.



Dyslexia is the difference between fine arts and fire ants, but sir David Attenborough would tell you they’re one and the same, so it really doesn’t matter now, does it?



Either she does, or she doesn’t.



I love these moments. These little moments when I discover someone without them knowing it. I watch her loll under the budding tree and I know her. I can tell from the way her perfectly brunette hair out-lengths her black leather jacket that the cold doesn’t bother her at all. Her paleness is genetic more so than geographic, and it’s the perfect contrast to the fringe that frames her face. Her boots give her height and confidence, and the way she twists her foot in the dirt tells me she isn’t going anywhere; rather, she’s digging in. Her lips puff and pop a hazardous red, giving her an edge like a straight razor despite her wan, little smile. Her jeans grip her thighs like I imagine my hands would, and I know she likes to be touched all over. I know this girl under the tree in this moment. This moment is our first. And I hope for many more…



I couched the taste of you on lips meant for spitting poison from snakebites and fell into a dream that collapsed my nerves into the drunk abyss usually reserved for fine whiskey or cheap wine, only to find myself in convulsions and wanting to wake up in pagan heavens, rolling in tall grass and listening to the crickets sing ballads about black dirt and starry skies beyond the smog and street lamps of the city limits.