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in and out of the cafe but none ordered black coffee or had a straw
hat. I went to the record shop and the man who owned the place
told me not to wait for Dawn that day. As she said, she had died at 18.
I was left in my own nostalgic silence. Everything that happened that
day became water and slowly evaporated, condensing again only to
come back to me again in its original form.
When a female fly falls in love with a male fly she accepts his
pheromones and her brain is re-written. Her pheromone receptors
are destroyed and the male senses the change and does the same.
They can never love anything again and if either of them dies, both
sets of genetics are lost forever. Humans cannot love each other with
the same dedication as insects. For the rest of my life I will commit
petty crimes like stealing things I could easily afford and taking up
more seats than I need. I hope reincarnation is real so this can cause
me to be reborn as a lesser creature.
Aman wakes up with strong coffee and persistent pessimism. His
bed is empty. I fill my gas tank to 41 dollars and 41 cents, because it
was her favourite number. I bought flowers from a homeless man. I
want to bring them to her before they wilt, because I don’t have the
ability to nurture a living thing. My mind is like a heavy fog in Spring
when all the snow has melted and the remainder of Winter was just
melted snow and mud, rain and solitude. She would say ‘What would
I do without you?’ I guess that’s what I’m wondering now, what she
is doing without me. There are always other ‘worst days of my life’,
so I guess I’m just being all sorts of melancholy.
I wake up and stare at the ceiling for a good ten minutes, water
my plants like I normally do and have my coffee with a much cream
and sugar as I normally do. Instead of cleaning my sheets I take them
straight downstairs and put them in the dumpster. We just slowly
grew up and started caring for various mundane adulthood activities
like getting the mail and watering flowers in window boxes. I’m
reading my favourite message inside my head and it’s raining outside.
I read it over until it’s lost its feeling and then read it another twenty
times until it’s lost its meaning as well. It’s hard to feel anything
when no one’s talking to you. I don’t think lonely is a feeling because
it’s really hard to feel anything when no one’s talking to you.
Are we perhaps as insignificant as insects?
‘
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