Did everything that happened 24 hours ago actually happen?

Yeah, I have tangible proof.

Weird.

It's not hate, it's

the absence of love.

I don't hate you, I just can't look at you.
And I regard everything you do or say with suspicion.

Mistrust YOU created.
Sorry.

You appear happy. You behave like someone, if even forcibly, in love.

I don't believe you? Not because I don't want to.

I'm sure it isn't all bullshit, but I don't know where to separate.
Maybe I never did.

I also once trusted you NOT to bullshit me. Simpler times.

Am I free yet?

I don't want to speak too soon because these things have tended to change, week by week, for too long now. And finding out that this is all falsehood next week will really depress me.

But maybe that's part of the grander construct.

Maybe it's that I see no more reason to love him.

Did I misconstrue empathy for love?

Because now that there's no empathy, no reason for worry, or perhaps a feeling that I haven't the right to empathize or worry, mill over his tragedy, being that there is no real place in his life for me...

I don't feel anything!

Maybe a little queasy.
But it's probably just that I drank too much last night.
By the way, are you kidding me, not bothering to say goodbye?

Josh's Alan

When we’ve learnt to stay apart is when we can come back together again.

There’s a woman’s face against the marble wall and that’s the sound of the accordion she’s playing. The harpsichord next. The songs she plays, they remind you of when you weren’t seventeen. It’s not like it was when she was really there -- that’s not to suggest that she’s all here right now -- and me?

I’m pregnant on another one, it’s going to be a boy and he will take my place and his son his. When I’m a great-grandfather I’ll have a heart made of perfume and pinecones, but mostly just a bottle of wine on the corner of the street again.

You said “we have to be careful.”

I said “I wish I could put it all back together again.”

You said “maybe next time around,” and then I realized we had failed for the first time yet again. How many time around the circle will it take? “Very close this time,” you said with a sad expression hanging from your face.

“Sure can’t we give it another go?” I asked. You said no. Not this time. I wondered if her songs that sat there next to us knew what it was that I’d eventually have to do in order to make all my shortcomings up to you. The songs? They said nothing.

But doors open, and doors close. People come and go, that’s what makes us want to turn around, but we can only remember now.

FUCK.

I reject this concept of quarter life crisis.

I think I'm going to let myself be angry.

Let myself fall off.

Dig a me shaped hole and rot there for a while.

WHY THE FUCK SHOULD I PUT ON A SMILE FOR YOU?

And then I'll go really far away and forget about all of this bullshit that I've somehow convinced myself is worth the misery.

IT'S NOT.

I'm going to turn off all the speculation that builds in the silence.

It's not real! IT'S NOT REAL!