grip of death
i am trying to pry my fingers from my travel-size "life" handbag that i've been clutching since the summer's onset. it's dirty and worn (you can barely tell it's white), with some scattered zamami sand and many crumpled and folded ticket stubs, a few puri-kura stickers, and i can definitely smell beer.
i really don't want to let go.
my friends are in there.
what -- am i supposed to just dump them out and vacuum out the inside, sucking out all the memories?
throw it into the wash and let it hang-dry upside-down in the humidity to stiffen the canvas again?
do i want new girlfriends?
not really...
do i need them?
damn.
what am i gonna do then
keep the bag, shake it out a little really fast so i don't notice too much and tuck away the photos and the handdrawn naha maps and the phone numbers and the flyers into my stack of life.
look at them often.
i just hate letting go.
and i can't sleep at all.
i wake up buzzing around 5.
i hope we meet again soon
i really don't want to let go.
my friends are in there.
what -- am i supposed to just dump them out and vacuum out the inside, sucking out all the memories?
throw it into the wash and let it hang-dry upside-down in the humidity to stiffen the canvas again?
do i want new girlfriends?
not really...
do i need them?
damn.
what am i gonna do then
keep the bag, shake it out a little really fast so i don't notice too much and tuck away the photos and the handdrawn naha maps and the phone numbers and the flyers into my stack of life.
look at them often.
i just hate letting go.
and i can't sleep at all.
i wake up buzzing around 5.
i hope we meet again soon