The Things by Peter Watts
“A whole planet of worlds, and not one of them—not one—has a soul. They wander through their lives separate and alone, unable even to communicate except through grunts and tokens: as if the essence of a sunset or a supernova could ever be contained in some string of phonemes, a few linear scratches of black on white. They’ve never known communion, can aspire to nothing but dissolution. The paradox of their biology is astonishing, yes; but the scale of their loneliness, the futility of these lives, overwhelms me. “
You know how when you’re listening to music playing from another room? And you’re singing along because it’s a tune that you really love? When a door closes or a train passes so you can’t hear the music anymore, but you sing along anyway… then, no matter how much time passes, when you hear the music again, you’re still in exact same time with it. That’s what it’s like.
- Where do you go when you're feeling down?
- To wherever you are.
I Wanna Grow Up With You
I want to stop messing around and sort out my priorities and save more money than I spend and get a house and pay the bills and cook meals that take more than heating something for about ten minutes and worry about home improvements and maybe get a mortgage and a landline and clean every Saturdays and do the laundry on Sundays and fight over what to watch on the television and shout at you to pick up after yourself and tell you to take the trash out and have a heart attack from anxiety when your parents come to visit and get extra keys made and hide them in strategic spots around the lawn and quit drinking and be kinder and ask about your day and worry when you come home late but not argue with you about it and learn to share my personal space and have a serious discussion about maybe having kids and ponder how big a responsibility that would be and never want to disappoint you but know that you’ll always have my back and sing love songs in the shower and not go snooping through your phone or your computer and learn to get along even with your stupidest friends and open a joint savings account for our retirement and smile at you over breakfast every morning and genuinely want you to have a good day but be ready to listen when you’ve had a terrible day and not make know-it-all suggestions that would only make you feel worse and hope this is going to work out just fine and try really, really hard to make it work but when it doesn’t, then I’ll let you go and wish you the best because you honestly made a difference in my life and I became a bit of a better person because I loved you and you loved me.
I love you. You’re perfect. Now change.
Spins and turns, angles and curves. The shape of dreams, half remembered. Slip the surly bonds of earth and touch the face of perfection - a perfect face, perfect lace.
I want to tell you this story without having to confess anything,
without having to say that I ran out into the street to prove something,
that he didn’t love me,
that I wanted to be thrown over, possessed.
I want to tell you this story without having to be in it…
The radio aches a little tune that tells the story of what the night
is thinking. It’s thinking of love.
It’s thinking of stabbing us to death
and leaving our bodies in a dumpster.
