It's the best of times; it's the worst of times.
- I don't know whether to be happy or sad for you, you say.
Well, that's fine, because neither do I. Let's see, walking down the street at 10:45 in the morning, stream of people and sunlight; I should be happy, right?
No, I'm crying.
- It's going to be OK, you say, putting an arm around me. You don't know when it's going to hit you.
Yes, you're right. Like in class, when we're reading a passage and I'm getting choked up over the word "bicycle."

But, but, but, but!

We have financial fiduciary control (finally). Girl in class flashing her IPod, and I'm thinking, I want one of that.
- You've got other things to think about, you say.
Well, yes, that's true. Like how I've got so much shit spilling out of my brain right now. All a haphazard mess on the table, or Pop-Tart crumbs on the bed. Days and times and people flashing me like a hooker in Lower East Side.
- That would make sense if we were in New York, you tell me.
Someday, it will.
-Isn't Lower East Side a nice place anyway, you ask.
I don't know. It sounds good though, doesn't it.

And we talked (finally).
- Haven't we always talked, you're thinking.
No, not like this. It was nice and scary at the same time. But it was good, right? I never know if I'm easy to read or easy to figure out. You're going to have to tell me.
Am I one of those people who walk around with their hearts on their sleeves and their stories written on their faces? I don't know, I haven't looked hard enough.

Or maybe I'm looking too hard.

Here, where we are, the sun goes low and dips out of line, and it's dark and cool. Leaves are blushing and I want to press them against wax paper, like that one time, but I left it in between the pages of an old book. It's still there, probably, just really dusty.

Now, we can play ball or we can shoot the shit. Does anyone know what that really means?
- No, you say.
Good, because you keep me sane.