fuck everything, yeah

i’ve never been loved like that.

i’ve never been looked at like somebody cares about me the way i care about them.

ain’t that fucking miserable?

my veins look like you sometimes, i swear.

and when i look in the mirror i can still pretend that you’re there

but you won’t be.

someone told me that being so close to someone that you can feel their heartbeat is warm like fire

i’ve spent the last weekend of my life in the snow, and i still haven’t felt cold.

mind you, i’ve never felt very warm either.

mind you, the sanguine of your stupid fucking lips still haunts me like an hourglass,

sand trickling down the moments until our inevitable moment,
until we can look up at one another, and raise our glass,

and at the top of our lungs scream:




“cheers”




because the ocean is a giant, and he’s sleeping, waiting,

the universal clockmaker, still winding his own gears and waiting,

and waiting

and listening, still.

we are between the bolts in his face,

we are the glint of light reflected in his eyes,

we are what holds him together, even if he holds us above the fire.

and oh my god, what does it mean to be in love?

i hear that love lasts forever.

that’s bullshit. it lasts until it dies.

because everything dies sometime.

only not us.

who knows how to make love stay?

In the last quarter of the twentieth century much of the world sat on the edge of an increasingly expensive theater seat waiting for something momentous to occur.
Christian aficionados of the Second Coming scenario were convinced that, after two thousand years, the other shoe was about to drop. And five of the era's best-known psychics predicted that Atlantis would soon reemerge from the depths.

To this last, Princess Leigh-Cheri responded, "There are three lost continents…we are one: the lovers."

In whatever esteem on might hold Princess Leigh-Cheri's thoughts, one must agree that the last quarter of the twentieth century was a severe period for lovers. It was a time when romantic relationships took on the character of ice in spring, stranding many little children on jagged and inhospitable floes.

Nobody quite knew what to make of the moon anymore.

Consider a certain night in August. The moon was so bloated it was about to tip over. For more than an hour, Leigh-Cheri stared into the sky. "Does the moon have a purpose?" She inquired. The same query put to the Remington SL3 elicited this response:

Albert Camus wrote that the only serious question is whether to kill yourself or not. Tom Robbins wrote that the only serious question is whether time has a beginning and an end. Camus clearly got up on the wrong side of bed, and Robbins must have forgotten to set the alarm.

There is only one serious question. And that is: Who knows how to make love stay? Answer me that and I will tell you whether or not to kill yourself. Answer me that and I will ease your mind about the beginning and end of time, Answer me that and I will reveal to you the purpose of the moon.