The mess in this room
I feel like, now, in order to be my friend, you have to undersand that life is fundamentally, numerically, socially, molecularly bizarre. It's absurd in every way. The fact that when we "touch" something there's still space between us and it. The fact that you can be totally engaged in a conversation but thinking of "sensory" things. The fact that there are only so many colors and it's up to us to fill in the blanks. Why do I exist? Maybe I'm figuring that out. Also, I really miss you, Brennan. But Bryan said that you're one of those people that makes sense in short bursts (and I want to add the word "alliterative" to that description). The more things make sense, the more they don't. How can this fucking be?