Maniac

...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.

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"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 ???

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"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.

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"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.)

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