the books don't lie nearly as much as you
A constant flight to this summer or next year or two thousand twelve, as we speak. Mumbled words and chaotic phrases. I'd prefer darkroom chemicals and floorplans to an apartment in Manhattan. The sound of the drain gulping away scented bathwater and my fingers leaving wet prints on the already damp pages of a book makes me stop. Then, a rerouting of links in the brain. They're feeding this illusion of our lack of control.