Like With Myxomatosis.

Shreds of carrion underneath my fingernails, the last remaining bit of the life I would have resigned myself to; ambivelence. At one point I had resolved simply to sit at the water's edge and wait for any storm to come along and clean out the stagnant pools; an overwhelming abhorrence of proaction. No longer. Idle youth! Enslaved to everything. By being too sensitive I have wasted my life.

We had a three day discussion about the way that things are. I don't know what happened, or why it happened, but it feels now as though he respects me, as though he understands something that he didn't understand before. Oh these millions of universes that exist in our heads and never once come to fruition. Sunday evening he put his lips to my ear and in a hushed and fragile voice asked me, "how is it that you have come to be in my life?" We never let on how tenuous happiness is, do we? Then these tender moments come, and you are bowled over, and there is no precedent by which to act.

Sometimes the words change, but the message is always the same. How can any of us pretend to know what we're doing? Trying to remain conscious of each moment in a life that is itself just a moment. In pitch dark I go walking in your landscape. Broken branches trip me as I speak. Stop acting as though every outstretched hand was there to save your life, as though every slap on the face was there to take it. It's all just adventure.