December 9, 2012
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I want the paper cubes that pop up when you take your hand off….
As I write this, it is 12:12 eastern standard time in Indianapolis. I’m out of wine, and my bathroom smells suspiciously of cigarettes. I have a closet full of postcard sized specialized paper that absorbs the ink from my strange musings, but doesn’t rip when I want it to. Handfuls of it. All stolen out of the discard bin. The only things I hear are the deep, even breaths of my lover’s exhausted fitful sleep from working two jobs, and the rustle of late-night traffic.
I keep getting the feeling that the galaxies are all starting to connect for me, but I’m not seeing the fruits of that connection yet. I do, however, live in pretty frequent coincidences. The most prevalent thought in my head seems to be “Damn it, I was supposed to be right here, right now, taking this all in. How the hell did I get here?”. But I like that feeling. It’s that sense of overarching destiny that keeps things moving along.
