It Reminds Me Of My Youth: Weed Smoke, Not The Window

How can any words ever be adequate?

They cannot. They are not qualified to speak to soft and forever.

I don't have any causes and I don't really have any interests. Here's what I'm into: having babies, being in love, thunderstorms, playing music, wikipedia, cooking, and reading. Are those the kind of things you could be into, too? Pensive? Not really. That would imply that I'm thinking. Tortured's more like it: my fingers are making that terrible raspy gasping air-in-the-lines sound because they are sucking at a dry well. But I'm an optimist and fucking perseverant (for serious!):

Understated understanding and a million miles away from the wtf looks and the uneasy silences. Epic fucking. Warm spoons held fast. Crooked smiles. A shared appreciation of particular chemical delivery systems. Constancy and creation; promised and delivered.