16 May, 2004


...ahhhaaahhhooooOOOOOooooOOOOOOoooooyeah/yeay-yeah, yeay-yeah, yeah/how does your life shine...

Sun breaks through the turkish towel of cloud cover, turns the wet parking lot into a gleaming sheet of obsidian. I jam into Park, throw the door open, fling my arms wide to embrace the brief beam, before the hole is healed and magical environment returns to mundane.


"So it sounds like you're back to Manic Mode,"

"I much prefer it to depressive."

"Yeah, well, it's a little hard to take."

? and ???


"It's not healthy."

"What, crying fits two or three days a month? Let me ask you: How often do I laugh?"

"The rest of the time."

Which I think is a more than fair trade.


"I love you, Buttercup."

(He calls me Buttercup.)

"I love you, Fluffy."

(He likes that I call him Fluffy.)

"I love you, my angel, my rose."

(I never know what she'll call me.)

"I love you, SweetPea."

(I never know what she likes to be called.)


It must be love: I think his feet are beautiful.

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