I want life in every word to the extent that its absurd.
The telephone rings every five minutes for my brother. He and his best friend are exchanging videogame tips.
Cable television is sucking up the attention of two rooms in this house, like a grimy, spoiled, obese five year old.
There are two computers buzzing two different desks, their wires twisted around each other to connect their owners to the sounds and images of the internet.
The shades of the digital black and electric silver plastic cases the lot of us are living our lives inside of are driving me into my head.
Scenes keep flying through my head, the same ones over and over again. (They're memories, but maybe I've unconciously photoshopped them, says the cynic that nestles in my hair.)
Drives through the desert in California, Puerto Rican afternoons with their hose-like rain spurts in San Juan, Little Italy in Manhattan at midnight (Gelato in a paper cup bought from a short dark man in an unmistakably New Yawk accent), La Jolla's beach in May, the humidity of afternoons in June, laying on wet lawns during the evening in July, and searing sunsets in August.
All these memories have got a color, and you can't find those colors in my living room. Hell, you probably couldn't find those colors in this entire town if you spent your whole life looking for them.
Cable television is sucking up the attention of two rooms in this house, like a grimy, spoiled, obese five year old.
There are two computers buzzing two different desks, their wires twisted around each other to connect their owners to the sounds and images of the internet.
The shades of the digital black and electric silver plastic cases the lot of us are living our lives inside of are driving me into my head.
Scenes keep flying through my head, the same ones over and over again. (They're memories, but maybe I've unconciously photoshopped them, says the cynic that nestles in my hair.)
Drives through the desert in California, Puerto Rican afternoons with their hose-like rain spurts in San Juan, Little Italy in Manhattan at midnight (Gelato in a paper cup bought from a short dark man in an unmistakably New Yawk accent), La Jolla's beach in May, the humidity of afternoons in June, laying on wet lawns during the evening in July, and searing sunsets in August.
All these memories have got a color, and you can't find those colors in my living room. Hell, you probably couldn't find those colors in this entire town if you spent your whole life looking for them.