thirst

Sometimes the border of the cliff isn't enough to keep people from going over it. Here is an exhibit: a man with sandals playing basketball and tweeting about "the horse-race." By which I believe he means the race of actually equines in the next county, but by which he could also be referencing humanity. It's hard to tell what a surgeon is thinking.

But that was yesterday, and this is today. I've dropped my stuff off in the lobby and to be honest I can't tell whether we are discussing the elegant flames painted in the bathroom tile, or the purses containing amphetamines that somebody stashes beneath the bleacher seats at Times Square. The moment you realize your alive you're already dead. That's a joke of course.

Evenings with Gladys were among the best I've ever experienced, truly Julie. An orchestrated, balmy evening in the bowl of a stadium with winter wheat stocked up in our coats, crowing about unicorns and fancy de-palmed believers. Did you know that they can erase your signature after all? They can erase your fingerprints, your Social Security Number, and your make-believe identity. Sometimes I sweat laying on my bed at night thinking about the turmeric lobby and all it's done to wrest power from the powers that be.

And just like that, another German on spelling vacation, licking his wounds from the last come-uppance. I swear, Julie, I could've beat that n-----, and if he'd looked back at me one more time…

Just now walking down 17th street I was saying "Preta" to myself (reading aloud, upon seeing sign for the over-priced deli of the same name where I often eat breakfast because it's the most convenient option) and looking at my reflection in a shopwindow. I noticed a girl passing by staring intently, smiling widely, like she was very interested, or amused, or both. Or she thought she knew me — but she didn't say anything. I looked back at her and she was glancing back at me. What are you supposed to do in those moments? I swear on all the vital organs of the continent I should have ran after her and come to understand her, made plans to see the symphony, grown old with her by a lake, but I just kept walking like a foolish ordinary human being thinking there's no other option but to keep on.

Then there's the part where you're all out of plans and you're thinking about Wisconsin, or talking to a girl down by the jetty about signatures or dopamine. Both are pretty individual to the person that makes them, and how do you know my brain's chemicals are like yours? I don't think it's obvious we know anything about what makes a person decide to get out of bed in the morning, or enroll in an expensive preparatory school to become a clown doctor.