The brain says…

I’m home now, on a Friday night, a little out of my wits, avoiding a bacchanal-style party with a genuine narcoleptic trance setting in, reading my own palm with the veins in my hands and the clear path to intuition cut wide by the non-interference of rational thought with irrational thought. Today was something of a mess. We took a field trip to see a play, The Chalk Garden (google it yourself, I ain’t fixin’ to link it) at Northlight theater. There were white kids there, and Hispanic kids, from the North Side, and as Michael said, “They’re looking at us like we’re a statue or something. Like they never seen black people before.” And maybe they haven’t, Michael, maybe they haven’t. They all wanted to stop at McDonald’s on the way back, but we didn’t really have time, so they were all mad. It was like giving someone a present and then having them throw it down for lack of sweet-ass wrapping paper, and you being all like, “Excuse me? I gave you a new hand blender. Why are you so volatile?” And having them be like, “Well. I wanted yellow striped wrapping paper. So. Forget you.”

That’s right.

I’ve also got Caleb’s voice in my head, a smooth stoner tone that flies into fits of anxious childlike glee and then falls back down to monotone haze. I am maybe typing with his cadence stuck in my thoughts. I am maybe not making sense.

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