Treat It Like an Oil Well (Even If It's Not Fluid At All)
I'd spend most of the night in the front room, coupling my favorite records together like a breeder of roses. Whir and click, whir and click. Even in your sleep the sound troubled you. But I didn't know how to come to bed.I look at my handwriting now and remember the cinder blocks, how I'd crouch down to release the pause button and see the spot on the lower right where you'd ripped that photo booth collage in half. I was preparing to leave, though I wasn't sure what. I was already more attached to the past than the future.