Lone Wolf


Trying to draw a few bits of wisdom from my notebooks and looking for a common thread…
(I think and notate in bits and clips, incomplete thoughts and half-baked ideas)
Some are stolen but all are mine.

So, here they are… just a handful of notes, notions, plagiarisms, interests, and observations:

When driving N/NE during sunset; and passing someone on the left- look to the right… the sun reflects off of the driver’s side-view mirror, casting a perfect square of light directly on the driver’s face.

I could feel her melting in my arms, she didn’t melt like butter on hot toast, it was more like plastic in the microwave

The only beautiful thing she ever did was read books like eating candy.

Some people grow stale and fragile and crumble. They turn to dust.
They scatter and parch the land and your tongue.

If we could just watch ourselves just being ourselves in this strange movie.

My mind. Scattered in neat piles over the living room floor.

He looked carefully and made out one phrase “the fate of others”

Cheap and fake. Like America. Like costume jewelry.

And the ash from his cigarette flew like a hundred moths, carried on the wings of cold winter air and the smoke hung thick as it mingled with his warm breath.

Asynchronous movement. A trip and fall love; unquenched desires… motivators of nothing.

In some ways a photograph is like an infinite goodbye- that’s why we never had our picture taken together.

My writing walks the page with a slouch today. A hitch in its step and a hard lean to the right.

We forget all too soon the things we thought we could never forget. We forget the loves and the betrayals alike, forget what we whispered and what we screamed.

She walked past me as if she did not know me, and it was true. After a year and a half she did not know me; but even worse for her- she did not know herself.

Half-dressed and second-guessing.

I could make promises to myself and to other people and there would be all the time in the world to keep them. I could stay up all night and make mistakes, and none of it would count.

A perishable dream.

She looked like the kind of girl who would carry a camera; like she had a secret, or was looking to find one.

Under the sun where no one seems to speak my language. Alone, with my thoughts and my shadow.

We walked hand-in-hand on the way down to the train, and when we said goodbye 10 fingers cried.


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