Walking around, nothing to do, feeling imperfect in an ok sort of way c.2016

 

I can’t believe anything that has happened.
Whoever loves me is how many sunsets I have left 

Parachuting molly in Washington Sq. Park, me and Audrey don’t care about being alive, as if we were born one second ago. “That’s the thing about the moon,” Audrey says, “if I wanted to, nothing could stop me from going there.” She watches me rub grass. “It’s fine you never pay attention,” she says.

“The moon,” I say.
“What are you thinking about?”
“Jesus, it’s like a blanket,” I say, “the atmosphere is like a blanket.”

Feeling not high enough, me and Audrey go back home to insufflate more MDMA where she asks about my first memory. “A picnic,” I say, “with my mom and someone else, I don’t remember.” “Stupid,” she says. I display a disconcerted facial expression. “Stupid memories,” she says to herself, “they don’t mean anything to anyone.”