i feel defined by that song, the one we talked about. not because of you or because of me or because of james murphy or anyone in particular, but because it all happened so quickly, its all I have to hang onto. That song has sucked up the night like I might slurp up the last sip of a glass of crisp white wine while sitting at a table of people I don't want to be with; swiftly but subtly signifying the end of that moment.
Listening fills me with a desperate emptiness, a yearning to figure out what the fuck happened. I feel excited to have experienced passion, but why did it have to be with him? the amazing catastrophe. And I don't have the guts to decide what to do. My fate is being drawn by the simultaneous refusal of thought and care of thought, and by my inability to come to any conclusion on how I feel besides the simple path of dwelling in it, treasuring it, smelling it and listening to the feelings.
i feel weak for changing my mind so erratically, for being unable to create a clear direction.
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