It’s hilarious. It’s a hilarious rain-sorrow filled paper cup. Just don’t let it surprise you. It’s not semen or anything. It’s just rain-sorrow.
I feel really terrible when you cry because you can’t hold her hand, or when he looks through you or something. I feel terrible for you and me, and also them. I feel terrible for everybody sometimes, but that’s just life…in its most resplendent natural form. It’s being a bitch again. Don’t cry or anything. It’s just the way things are sometimes.

It was a nice day that day. Just the way the Chinese lanterns were lit up above us all - it was almost night, drizzling a little and we were having cheap takeaway coffee. It was super-cool. I loved that day. I don’t remember a word of what was said. And that’s great, ‘cause I usually remember every fucking thing. But I didn’t forget the music: Through the din, the clatter of plates and cups on the sidewalk cafes, the other voices and shuffling feet.
That day never came back, though we all tried to recreate magic in our puny little ways.

Back home, it was all different. There was discontent everywhere – in the way phones were answered, in classroom conversations, in stolen kisses. People were too poor or too rich or Marxists. Or intelligent. Discontent and suffering everywhere. And I missed the goddamn Chinese lanterns and the dishwater coffee, the cold and wet night, our little group. But someone’s cynical laughter distracted me, and we shared a cigarette and wiped the sweat of our brows, talking about things we weren’t too sure of.

Sometimes I think we’ve got it again… when we lean against each other like uncared books in a dusty shelf. And when you tell me about your little quixotic plans. I love you like mad then. But then you look away, like you’ve made a mistake…or like you have more important things to do…or like you’ve said too much. I don’t know what I do then. Probably look at my hands or nod idiotically, laugh unexpectedly or something. What does one do, when they feel love slip so clumsily out of their hands? I am certain I look as silly as you do.

But like I said: it’s not all bad. We’re really good to each other sometimes. We’re good to other people. We still discover new things – in the backyard, in ourselves. And then on a really, really good day, when you turn off the TV, and turn on the rich sax sounds and do a wild jig with me, it’s cool. Not super, but cool.