Fake Plastic Trees

"It’s tragic."

"What is?"

"How wasteful it all was. Years gone, never to be seen again. Not like they could be seen again. It’s in the past. Everything is in the past. Just like now… and now… and now. The sun won’t stop coming up."

"That’s only one way to look at it. You’re only young. There will be more times for your soul to be destroyed. But, now I am being as dramatic as you and no one wants that. This place couldn’t handle two of you."

"Maybe you’re right, on the first parts. The latter is irrelevant. There is me and only me… I’m sick of playing coy. I’m sick of the run around. I am sick of the pretending. Nothing is real anymore. I’ve been thinking for a while now that it never was. This place, these people, this life, it all feels likes fake plastic trees."

"Can’t you find anything to smile about these days? The sun still comes up. You love the sun shine."

"The only sunshine I want is the kind that slips through her pores and stumbles out of her eyes like she does when she comes home in the middle of the night."

"And who says all hopeless romantics are dead?"

They left their glass on the table as they stood up. The humidity had left remnants of perspiration. The unforgiving Florida heat doesn’t let up, even in April. These late night meets had become routine. Memphis was always talking Schuylar away from the edge of a cliff. The two had been friends. Good friends. The best of friends. Enemies. They had been through a lot. Too much, depending on who you ask.

The science of standing in line.

Bad television. I’ve never been more tired than I am now. I wish I could count the white lines that separate the street. There aren’t any lights to show you the road on that part of the world. It’s big. It doesn’t look real. Like, one vast painting. Pictures don’t make sense, not when it comes to that. 4,500 miles. There is this poem by Ginsberg, “Song.” It’s about how love is the only thing that keeps us living. It is our inspiration for life and our greatest burden. I believe that to be the most true. I’ve been looking for a hand to hold, eyes to stare into; a companion. “Do you really like being alone? God damn, of course you don’t.” I don’t like the loneliness of a crowded room and the love I have for an empty bottle. What is progress? What is a pretty face? This sickening comfort found in the company of another. It only last for a moment. The feeling that everything is all right. It departs as quickly as it arrives. Once it’s gone, the world goes back to being a menial string of day to day droning. Standing in line waiting to die. “I sing like this, it sounds worse than it is. I’m okay, okay?”