A soft spot, somewhere. She found it, but I didn’t notice. She started pushing and piercing, day after day. When the hole was big enough, she put her ravenous finger inside. Little by little she took everything, compromising the whole structure. (Thoughts about the matter: solid? Gassy? Grey? Purple? Tasty?) I was a quarry, but I didn’t know.
We should cross the street. Eat something.
Are we an easy prey for ghosts? Do you think we could get eaten by them? I mean, eaten from the inside.
I do believe we have rooms for ghosts. We let them in, don’t we? We let them stay. They dwell in us. We become their home, but at the end we realize we are the ghosts ourselves.
Um…yes, I don’t think we are their victims. It’s just another tragic love story.
The street seems empty. We should share a sandwich.
“The greater part of our happiness or misery depends upon our dispositions, and not upon our circumstances.” Hey Yvonne, do you think Martha was right?
Yes, I used to draw self-portraits…In the beginning it was just an assignment our life drawing teacher gave us, then it became an exercise for myself. It wasn’t even narcissistic…I didn’t share it…you know, it was the pre-Internet era. I was learning something different about myself. The more I was looking at me, the more I was digging under my skin. Back then I didn’t know. It’s a long process….it takes into your own inner cave and back, and then you re-emerge leaving your body behind, but not abandoned. You go hunting, looking for the others….other’s faces and caves and skins. Pardon this vapid metaphor.
No, nothing, sorry… I was just thinking. I did left myself behind…kind of lost myself.
Wait. Sorry man, my mom’s calling. Hey mom! (…) Sorry man, but is this about selfies?
While talking about fuck buddies, he kept using the word proxemics. I thought it coupled very well with the gushing fountain.