Let’s hang out with some old people.

Because I’ve been ignoring them.
Their leathery sacks of personage. Their bloomed-and-wilted eyes.
But they are not gone, not yet past my periphery.
I think they may know many useful things. They are, afterall, almost ghosts.
They lived through years of Barbary, when men were animals and women were help.
Years of violence and poverty and war.
Your Grandfather is the only person you know who’s killed someone.
Your Grandmother is the only person you know that’s raised more than three children.

Histories with pumping hearts.
If only both of mine had not gone mad.

Things I would like to talk to you about

The end of the world

Space travel

Ghosts

Egypt

The greatest day of my life

If we’ll talk in ten years

Thrills are:

It’s walking down the Santa Monica pier after the sun. And thousands of faces are floating by, and your eyes are just flying. And the girls are all there, all around you, and you look at them all, right in their eyes.

And a half-second sticks, and man, you know she’s 15, maybe, and she’s staring right back at you. All liner and blush. All flesh.

So you whip away and walk on through a little shiver,
back towards the lights.

Destinations are documented

For entertainment? It feels good to look at what your dictionaries have to say about proper city names.

It seems very analog. A short composed description, as though you were checking on a foreign destination in a travel agency.

Or at the train station.

Let’s look:

Exciting. Just a word and we’re “on shores”, involved with “military governments” and “shoguns”.

Let’s try another:

The fictions write themselves.

In so much as first.

No, but I do have some floor-cereal. Yes, it fell on the floor a little, but I scooped it right up with a paper towel. I think it’s just fine to eat.