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But still she hated me. I wasn’t fat, and she didn’t understand why I would like someone that was. At that age, I didn’t realize what was going on, that the knotty feeling in my gut whenever she got mad was the sign of a burgeoning love.

But between the wining and dining, between the sheets and kisses, we were left wondering—there was always a lingering distance that made us feel apart. The tendency to fall is easy, but the glue that sticks never comes at a discount.

There is an older song, one the lady at the bar sings to me when I stumble in before close. It’s a lullaby that eases me into the night, cause I’m that baby and she’s the mother who wants to make sure I get home safe.

You think you’ll go years without hearing their voice, move and find a way to discover a new you. You wish that old part of you gets outdated, a relic resembling a computer glitch that some kid fixed at a Best Buy. But then you get the text: “Happy birthday.”

There’s a hazy wonder that strikes a being when lust turns into passion, when wantonness redefines itself as love. That line is as delicate as truth is from fiction, and those memories remain stained in our veins until the end of our days.

I’d never been able to grasp some basic things in life, about love and caring, about compassion and empathy. I tried to calculate them into formulas, tried to reciprocate in return, but there were things I could just never grasp. But for her, this had become a joke. It’s just like she had said: A broken fucking record.

Mother always said that nothing was impossible, just improbable. But the mathematics of love tell me that our equation reaches the nadir of probabilities, so much so that it may as well be impossible. It’s kind of like living a billion lives with a billion chances—that even at the end, nothing works, nothing jiggles. The keys don’t turn, and you and I are just not meant to work.

Full of opulence and history, beneath my feet lays the great mysteries of you, of yesterday, of me and of the Tokyo streets that filled us with warmth. Territories divided, crystalline and meticulous, our shivers burst through the opaque admissions that hold each of us prisoner.

I’m not sure why it was so hard for her to understand. I lost my camera the night I met her, along with the memories that were stored in it. I gave up my memories for her, and something tangible (and a little expensive) to boot. I just wanted to know if she was worth that price.

Her theories on love reminded me a little of toy cars—to be specific, the radio controlled ones that I so loved when I was a kid. They’re small, accurate models of the real thing. They can be controlled without strings and from afar. They bring you happiness until the day you decide to grow up.

The part that primarily drove me nuts was the “honey.” If this is ending, you have no right to call me “honey.” You can call me “asshole,” “motherfucker” or “bastard,” but you sure as hell can’t call me “honey.” It’s uncalled for, and it’s damn wrong.

Ponder ponder transponder the times you’ve seen her say hello / The times lies dropped from leaves so cold, so bold / That you ate, with mayonnaise and ketchup to boot

“That’s me. The Future. Future. The one and only, although I’m pretty sure there’s one in every family. Where there is hope, there is a Future. Complete with packaging and a sticker price. I’m not for sale, though, you know. You and I, we’re just on borrowed time from each other. It’s an equal trade.”

The brick and mortar hearts that we build to surround our weakening bones that tilt—they may not crumble, but a hard heart does not feel.

With a gleeful smile on her face, “Well, yeah. Like, in the beginning they wouldn’t do it, so one day I just went over to the place and flirted with one of the managers. I guess it worked, cause the next time I called, I kind of whined in a sweet, innocent voice and promised to come and say hello next time.”

On my 40th birthday, my wife gave me a one-way ticket to the Bahamas. Just one, one-way, meaning that she wanted some distance between us. What an odd time to tell me that.

It’s like a beautiful charade, day by day, you await your departure and arrival and departure and back again. The circular trend of life never stops, and yet again you breathe a bit heavier. There is no regret, but life still feels so temporary.

what we got here is a crash course in history / the mysteries that existed are blistering

We fell in love with New Order’s Technique, and then fell in love with each other.

Christmas in August, we mirrored the moments. You and I and our unending affair with time became a photograph hung on the wall like a sonnet.

But the center of gravity fell that beautiful morning while you lay in bed. The mountains in the Pacific collapsed and volcanoes spewed forth an unending stream of solitude. Like sleep, she had come and gone. Like a dream, she had vanished as you opened your eyes.

I live in a hundred and twenty year old apartment building with a nonexistent elevator. My nonexistent doorman’s name is Allen, and his wife doesn’t let him eat dairy products past six o’clock in the evening.

of pleasure and disarmament / when she stands tall / without garments / on skin, so clean and crystalline / and awefully warm and / prepares for the ultimate scorn

Is it possible for there to be a duplicate of a nonexistent object?

My real name is Tracy. I was born in San Francisco, but now live in Millbrae. I am fourteen years old and obviously too intelligent for my own good.

i’m a legend you can’t contend with / bend with (like beckham) / as i send you out / with my love and my memories / tragedies and apologies / that we circumscribe like sophocles

It was early, and the sun was still rumbling underneath the sheets. The man was shivering in the cold, the wind erasing the rough edges of his scaly skin. Sixty-seven years old and part-time relative to a muttish hellfiend from Harlem, his body shook left and then right in his wastebasket bed. Papers ruffled.

Do not mix your HMOs with love. Love doesn’t want to deal with IRAs. Love wants love. It warrants warmth and instant satisfaction. Love is longing. And love is not perfect.

The concepts of having nine-to-five jobs, of retirement plans and HMOs, they’re all so against the simple, honest and genuine concept of living. How does one survive by being a two-dimensional cut-up of one’s former self?

She went silent. Her eyes glistened, and I felt like the one-liner in a cheap twenty cent romance novel. This isn’t how I dreamed it would be. This isn’t how I imagined my life.

“What does it mean? The punch is the pull? That makes no fucking sense.” Nonetheless, the words are burned into your thoughtstream, clipping away at every nerve that tries to supply your brain with contradicting theories. You shake your head hard, thinking that it’ll somehow knock sense into your skull. It’s like kicking the VCR to fix the blinking 12:00—brute force is only a temporary solution.

I’m not sure where things went wrong. When I was eight or nine, I had aspirations of becoming an astronaut, a doctor. By fourteen, I thought I was a smartass and figured being a plastic surgeon would be the way to go. But ever since the day I found myself falling for her, all that I ever wanted to achieve in life went by the wayside.

“How many reasons are there for losing yourself? No, no, let’s not get into that. Too complicated, too bizarre. Something simpler: How often do you change your socks? It’s a simple question, but I’ve always been the kind of person who wondered if anyone would notice if non-smelly, dark-colored socks would be fine to re-wear. I mean, they’re not noticeable, right? And isn’t that the point?”

I want to write a book, direct a film or do something that’ll show you, tell you and make you feel about the ironies and preciousness of life.

Past the corner of my eye on Second Avenue, I see her walking down St. Mark’s Place. Short edgy hair with bangs that cover her right eye. Glitter over her eyelids; for effect or maybe for superficial purposes (either work). I’m across the street, going the other way, but she has the uncanny ability to change my direction.

You and I are simple; the complexity of our relationship is superficial. The terms we never agreed to are imaginary, and for that I will forever hold you in my thoughts.

this shit, it’s unreal / i don’t feel / love or hate / cause life’s a reel / of sunday night flicks / on nbc / starring jean-claude van damme / and directed by spike lee

The words go 360° and land back at my feet, ever constrained in a magically perfect world where things are clockwork. But truth isn’t a warm blanket; and your heart is never warmer than a Siberian summer.

Walk up behind her and lay down the bait. You have to believe one simple rule: You have the power to make anything happen. A tap on the shoulder makes her attempt to turn around, but your lips are near her ears. She stops dead in her tracks and your verbal chemistry goes in full effect.

i go hungry / this money, it’s not interplanetary / survival becomes a joke without hope / just look at the bloke down the street / trying to cope / without the greens to pay for his dope

It’s midnight dear, past the snowflakes, your heart is clear and love is near. No, please, I didn’t mean what I said. I do love you, but the time is not right. You and I: the equation doesn’t flow. How should it go? Well, fuck. How would I know.

Thirteen notches into the gutter, and you life is in flutter; eight nimble legs that swing about and bring down your ego, and her eyes whisper to you her jealousy—yet you can’t let go.

Halfway through my eighteenth year, I left school and headed out to Manhattan. My uncle lived in a two bedroom apartment on the Upper West Side where he kept his dog happy with lots of caviar. He was a handsome, rich man but without a wife. As a pioneer in the field of chaotic dynamics, he had won scholarships and been awarded a significant amount of money. But he and I were a lot alike: Alone and empty.

i was pushing a shopping cart at a safeway and i hit some old lady and she got pissed off at me. i was like only eight or something but she didnt care and when she saw me again she yelled at my parents and told them i was a bad kid and that my parents were bad parents.

And suddenly, among visions of momentary strobe lights and loud music and afterward thoughts of 75 cent hot dogs at Gray’s Papaya came visions of her face and voice and suddenly I realized who it was. And by this time, I only felt dumb. How could I have forgotten her face? This question has no answer. It happens.

Rain seems to make the world feel a lot more romantic. Maybe it’s a mediacentric archetype driven by classic 1950s films. Maybe a bit of Bogey and Audrey’s hidden in my thoughts. But the bottom line is, I’ve always wanted to walk a girl home in the rain. Some kind of wonderful, that would be.

Wait: Who is she? I don’t know. Seriously. I have her in a few of my classes, I think. I see her here and there and even sat next to her a few times. But, I guess, somehow, someway, some sort of a relationship formed between us. I only know her full name because I saw her on the class roll. I’m not exactly good at this stuff, it’s not what I do. Keeping track of my own life’s a challenge. But yeah, she caught my eye. My fancy.

There was space, night, lack of light, darkness between them. Within that, there lay a million moments of wisdom, of worry, of genius and stupidity. Of chances and risks never taken. He knew then that that moment would pass by, night would turn to day, that he’d go on living and that she’d find her place in life.

I started living through a modern concoction of sorts: Someone darker, taller, skinnier, younger. Rahat Ahmed. He was the medium through which I explored the years that I had lost in my own youth. It did some sort of a rejuvenation trick. For the first time in a while, I felt alive.

I sighed and four minutes of silence ensued. After that, I threw away my trash and grabbed my coat. She did the same. I walked her home as the cold wind battled her scarf. Meanwhile, I kept her warm. She smiled, genuinely (and naively) when we arrived and gave me a sweet kiss before I left.

She shook her head a few times, gave me a kiss on the cheek, paid the bill and hurried out the door. And there I sat, my heart in hand, wondering what it takes to make someone understand.

She glared at me for a second as the train halted at Union Square. “You’re cute. Too bad I have to get off now. Take care!” She gave me a smile. A big one. And then she got up and left.

A boy is a man before his time. A hope is a dream when reality is attached. A miracle is a dream becoming reality without a warning.

She then proceeded to grab her Fendi handbag, open it up ever so slightly, and pull out a business card. “Sara ________, Sophomore.” With her home phone number, cell, email and her website. It was a pink card, with a soft texture.

A man was caught today at the edge of the earth as he tried to jump off into the vast openness of cheese. He had made himself a nacho and was attempting to dive into the abundant Velveeta runoff that had so polluted the universe. He was, as you have found out, unsuccessful.

In our days, we lived an eternity. Now, we’re merely the shadows of our own past. We’d like to think that the end is near, but we know that it is not the case. We’re trying to fool ourselves so we don’t have to take into account the many days that will exist hereafter.

She’s the kind of girl I fall in love with, the ones who don’t think twice about their surroundings. There’s an attractive force in that ignorance, a force that justifies all the greetings not taken notice of, a force that justifies all the initiated eye contacts not reciprocated.

Let me be your obi. Let me wrap around your waist like a slithering snake, enrapturing your heart and crystallizing your thoughts so they last forevermore.

“The shortest distance between where you are and where you want to be is a road laden with broken shards of glass and melted hearts. Give no attention to what is below you, and you will succeed.”

the only link i have
between my past
and my future
is an angel
with eyes that sparkle
and a heart that is transparent

Sliding gliders, petrified lighters, fire blinks through paper like your eyeballs on my sword—are you bored?

If it is passion, or if it is a muse, if it is a hidden catalyst or just something one must not lose, it drives the metaphor of the heart over the edge of the barren cliff and rests upon its own weight letting the being float on air.

She smiled. When she performed such an action, everything else seemed to blur and mesh together. The surroundings’ colours became enriched; the air cleaner, smoother, a bit colder; time stopped, quickened its pace, and came to a sharp halt. The world circumvented reality, and only fantasies remained present.

In the end, nature may limit science, but that does not mean science cannot bend and stretch the boundaries.

Not much can quell such a beating, but luckily for him, fate was about to willingly force a solution upon him, one which he would readily accept. He glared up at the blank, black sky—no stars, not a moon, only the deep dark abyssal trench that lay across his eyes—and he wondered what his next move should be.

Death shall not come to me until I have conquered the impregnable. This is how it shall be. This is the orchestra to which I shall conduct my symphony.

Imagine being born into this world expecting nothing except what may come naturally. And that mind then being altered by the media to fit a more wider spectrum of results.

A collection of songs to soothe the night. Spending hours on the phone with the girl I’m crazy for, with her not knowing it (yet). And inside, feeling some sort of calmness. Some sort of serenity.

Bobby had spent all his time conjuring up a plan to get her back. Sitting in front of her in history class, not paying attention to the professor’s lecture, he wrote up a neat little note.

She looks just amazing in a simple, ordinary t-shirt.

It’s ironic that of the Raiders of the Lost Ark movie and of my time in Paris, I remember a moment from each which was not very consequential to the whole experience. This, I find to the perfect example of the saying, “It’s the little things that matter.”

Swerving the corners of the rotten landscape of the proverbial capitalist movement, I sense the rush, the adrenaline, the feel of it all as the world succumbs to the fallacies of a charlatan truth (because they are blind, and they are yet to know it).

What glory has been given to you, milady. You have arched the peak of the summit of perfection, and have lunged back into the world so cold, so still, so numb.

But then Obsidian had a revelation. Considering the fact that they had eternity to themselves, Obsidian suggested of a little experiment that he and Amber could perform together spanning billions of millennia, if not even more. It consisted of building a world from the foundation up. They would meddle with this and tinker with that, all in order to see what they could do.

Life is an ugly creature, tormented like wings in winter, for the sullen angel cried so softly leaving a pond where I lay my bed.

Nonsensical representation of the blurry world; the eyes cannot fathom the truth into its depths of uneasiness—the lies within our feet are sweeter, they are warm and comfortable, not unlike a blanket filled with small electric currents.

There’s something to be said about a woman’s face when winter hits. Her cheeks blossom to a pulp rose under the freeze that is put onto them; they almost want to burst out of their cherried container.

He scurried his way to be the winner of the race to exit the station. He needed to go into the real world and breathe some fresh air. He needed to see the skyscrapers and see them staring back at him like he was a tiny little ant invading the morning’s chocolate cake. He was nobody in this city. But of course, he had other plans.

i was a huge task
life was a huge task
you, my dear, were a huge task
i could never be what i wasn’t and i always was what i was

And the sun sets into your eyes as the glowing timbre of the morning humming enchants your soul into a pure liquefied state of nothingness and only then do you see than you’ve fallen farther than ever and the climb up is gonna hurt like hell but you don’t mind because you think it’s all worth it it’s all worth it it’s all worth it, isn’t it?

Coming down off the nova somewhere near the boiled egg that is the Royal Albert Hall, we watch Paul’s Sun crossed with John’s Star and hold ice cream hands. Someone slipped on a cassette as the one you wanted left with someone else but somehow it was cool because as the music filled the shadows, you heard a sound that was a millions miles away from fakery and a step away from your heart.

tears in gathering of thoughts
touch felt in a moment’s notice
i hold my self
capturing the moment
diaphanous lies
diaphanous truths
nothing shocks me anymore