(no subject)
Miranda stepped in the knife-like grass, counting what continents lie on her legs. As expected, there weren't any. Today an unknown inhabitant of Troy saw a beige truck drive by, a stately man of six feet inside, red hair scorching azure eyes. Suddenly details I left out were remembered: the usual polo pulled over a plain T-Shirt, music now found obnoxious, a high school love affair. We can only imagine his collagen-deprived lips worn thin with time; as with all good stories, the ending is inconsistent. Much was left desired, and as you lie in bed, a ceiling fan dictates circles for your eyes to follow. It is then that things slowly begin to make sense: the man really was gay. It is no longer of importance because other things cross your mind. For example, solving the puzzle of summers ago when you adventured into the deep end of the city pool. You played the fateful role of cannonball, and after splashing the water, you found yourself unable to swim, drowning in chlorine & muffled laughter.