Remember modern dancing in the dark, to Moby, no doubt. Limbs contorted. Bones in flight. You say, "baby, you are really getting into this." I reply, "of course." Because what is there to do if not huff and puff across bed sheets and bedlam. So we lift, so we reach, so we burn oh so hard for a moment where control gives away to an inner weird in a language that only we could understand. I tell my roommate about these management books I'm reading, and how I've only been reading so much of it because the recent bedtime reading of choice -- One Hundred Years of Solitude -- turns out to be so grand in scale, so many characters that it's just plain damn difficult.
"That says a lot, doesn't it," my roommate says. That says a lot about you, reading all these management books instead of underlining quotes from fashion zines.
I'm not sure what it says, but deep down inside, in my core of being, I haven't changed at all from the girl with a bundle of emotions and tendencies.
I hope this never ends, this thirst for living, these moments of weird.