Thursday: Writing

This is some writing that is not particularly inspired, but pleasant practice.

It is raining here in Los Angeles and I am listening to Johnny Desmond on vinyl, a tired peace overcoming me. I have a desire to do some volunteer work soon. It's time to return the favor.

Sorry I have been slow with responses and with my updates. If you have not heard from me yet, you will, I promise. And I always keep my promises (Especially the ones I make to you).

She said, "You know, I think I am always in love." I exhaled my hit and sucked another one off my jay. The sun had risen in her eyes by now and she was pleasantly bewildered. You have could have flipped a dime into her pupils. She continued, eying something which did not actually exist. "You know, sometimes I feel like if I just love hard enough, I can fix all the problems in the world." I smiled because it was endearing, and because she looked like a precious cartoon character, perched on the edge of the bed in nothing but a bathrobe. The rain had come unexpectedly that day, but she decided to put her sunshine face on anyway. She'd come up under the covers, and now the ceiling was swirling as if it were made of amoebas - her words. I was sober so I was pretty sure I loved her. In the heat of drunken fucking, too lazy to turn the lights on, I was always sure I loved her. But I could have loved anybody. Right now her body was soft and mellow and warm, and I wanted only to touch it. She leaned into me, her hair smelled dusty, she sighed heavily. She said, "Oh darling, sometimes I wish I never had to leave this." This. This room, this moment, this city, this bed, this euphoric state of dying. I said to her, "I love you," and she giggled, the color of her eyes swallowed up in black hole pupils. Her skin was electric, humming.

This.

Writing February 5th 2009