The city must not have ever been so quiet as it was this morning.
Blanketing, it seemed to bu-bump-bump-breathe like a beat, …as long black lines of faceless companions travelled with me.
"There's just that, my question ya know…'Do the people meant to be together really get to be together?', and I.. just believe they do" he said.
And I didn't agree.
I rubbed my foot into the place in the carpet where there's a red wine splatter stain. It needs to be white-scrubbed away but I like that it's there. Like any sweet secret reminders of granted chances. Stolen chances that seemed so right.
"I think that there are people….people that believe that's true - maybe because they believe it's fate, …and people that believe - like me - that sometimes you lose that person you're meant to be with. Sometimes you both hurt each other and can't forget. Maybe those "people you're meant to be with", are just -people it works with"
And he didn't agree.
He rubbed the back of his neck, like he does when I scare him, and started index finger-clicking start&stop the scenes of raw footage.
Hung up the phone later and was startled to still see Chicago out of my tall windows, he was 700 miles away in a burrow of Brooklyn and I was smiling.
Because there's a joy in having survived!
There's a beautiful deserted pleasure to being lonely and gone, and past, and… I'm afraid to say I embrace each time - Old Friend! You've been gone.. - the thought that at least something to the left will richen.
Enriches my work with senses, trinkets of nights, ...with all the fiery-pink triggers of familiar past companions now gone silent.
That works.
The nights, and days, and ART and tales go on for measureless hours; that I so desire to make feel like twirling down a lane. To make exhausting and delightful.
