Last Call

16.7.04

 

Pacing The Bird
 
You don't fall in love, you fall in infatuation.  And you don't really fall in it.  You are only dirtied by being in it's presence.  As though smog congealed on your flesh in a dense urban area and the sweat of that smog was tasted on your lips on a hot afternoon and you craved ice cream instead.
 
So it began. 
 
The sweat.  The heat.  The taste of infatuation's smoggy paste on your upper lip.
 

5:58 PM