Great photo. I wonder what the woman's hair color is.

Her hair color is red.

Got a call from you today.

Wasn't expecting that.

It's probably the scotch talking.

The only girl I ever knew who could handle her scotch.

Has it really been six years?

Christ, we were young.

Me, the hotshot young writer and you the blossoming lawyer.

Now I'm riding the coattails of forgetfulness as you're forgetting this with cocktails.

At the end of all these adventures and misfortunes we can treat our decades as indelicately as hazy memories of a drunken frenzy the night before. We collect our belongs from the bedside; we open up the blinds and remember the world that is left desperately hanging when you are on fire with lust, passion of any kind, really.

The best of my writing came to me in my sleep, sometimes dreaming. Sometimes I think I must have dreamt you up in some delirious fever, but then I remember the warm sweat on your lips and the cold sweat on my brow. And I remember pouring psychedelic mushroom caps and stems on our Hot N' Ready pizza on the small bench inside the local Little Caeser's. I remember how cute you were when you laughed and the way that everything echoed that day.

The earrings pour off of you and into my hands. No longer am I skating along the surface of my desires; I'm swimming through my longing. You untie me from the bed so I can find myself once again locked in the room with the window forever open, the sun forever shining. Memories mix in me like margaritas twisted out of Jim Beam and sunflower nectar, if they have nectar at all.

You summon me with cough syrup for breakfast. Days like these pass by but I have never quite gotten past them. Substance from substance abuse would sound clever but I have memorized through repetition the insincerity behind that statement. Reality has nothing to do with the world; only memories substantiate reality. Anything else is questioning guesses and backhanded asides. Instead of feeding falsehoods to each other we dropped ecstasy pills in our mouths and, kissing, exchanged them. Your pink for my purple. My purple for your pink.

Beneath the floorboards I hid all the rocks you gave me in a blue, felt box. When that box filled up I started filing them in my coat pockets. The aspiring world ready for our minds, we'd wander streets. Youth was an enemy, a stranger, with no mention of us in the perpetual obituary that spelled itself out in the clouds and hung in braille signatures in the shapes of birds hung up on the high tension wires. But there was no time for that then; it was our false reality.

We fed it with false emotion.

Sex is swell but feeling truly connected is orgasmic. Like so many unsigned bench warrants we were lazily, but ceaselessly wanted by each other... for each other. Days have passed like cars after they've hit you. Days stick around for the cops to come while you hop with broken legs over fences even when you don't have anything illegal on you. The snow falls, gravitates on to the high tension wires, and buzzes... like so many electric kisses that stirred my head like the dizzy quake that enters you right before a painkiller induced seizure.

Love is a silly word. So is serenity. My signature is embedded in the eternal cross-hairs of your sundial. Thank you for your time. You'll find your check and generally positive reference in the mail along with a complete and detailed memoir of our wasted ****ing freedom.

No one told me about her.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6049LDtBFrg

I just thought I'd remind you PP that...

I find that strangely comforting, Sunny.

"Like the gazelle from the hand of the hunter,

"like the bird from the hand of the fowler,"

"free yourself."

Iron Man VS Bruce Lee

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ywu1DeqXTg4&feature=channel

And so

if I ever get one I'll make sure to get one for you too.