rewind (paused)

too many. there are too, too many things. only, I don't want them to go away. I didn't want any of it to go away. remember that time at the pizza place, when the world froze, my whole life suddenly in the grip of the psychological costs of exclusion?

wading through the rain once in lubbock after a bit of opera... after a bit of bench-sitting across from the library... and then wading through more rain in budapest after the longest, hottest rambly day, on our way to a bit of weird vegetarian indian buffet, english friends in tow.

that hymn we sang last week is one of your favourites. maybe it will always remind me. everything goes away. unkept, unkempt. I wanted it that way, too. both. singing, listening, knowing, wondering.

we wandered around the oldest zoo in the world, into the dark, barely-lit cavern where they had rats, and our handholding, which on that day had been so especially delightful I think, turned into a more of a standing embrace, and we kissed there in the pitch black before anyone’s eyes could adjust and find us out.

think think think like that pooh bear in his acres of wood, stuck but not fast enough. clinging but not close enough. too much. it isn't like how they say it should go. this or that. but nothing can be.

or up in the old town of Sighișoara, overlooking the hills and streets and roofs to the east--that direction most exotic and mythical--we sat on that bench for an afternoon, talking about hawaii and other stories, reading, writing. will the universe ever give me more of that?

unanswered phone calls, unanswered prayers. hunger devouring itself.

the top bunk in the hostel in Vienna for a nap before our concert of Strauss and Mozart, while it rained outside and everything seeming just so exactly and brilliantly and tremblingly right. was that the precipice from which the future fell and crashed?

voices and counterpoints, heard and rehashed so many, so, so many times.