I live in the Twenty-first Century and you lie awake beside me. You watched your phone unhappily in the dark waiting for love in buzzing doses. There was nothing I could do about it. I felt hollow. Your face is…
“Were you up high?” asks Kuan. “High enough to die,” says I.
Who are you, to ask the sky for anything, to hold itself together, to luminesce iridescence, to show you glimpses of God?
“An old man calls over to where I’m sitting on a bench, from around 30 paces away, and asks if I feel like talking. It’s a reasonable enough request – I’m not doing anything but watching the water from up…
I hope he does not read my blog, or the surprise will be ruined.
“I’m not a romantic guy, I’m just mad about stuff.” Kuan explains his luck with a girl.
