Every second, another streak of silver glows: parentheses, exclamation points, commas–a whole grammar made of light, for words to hard to speak.
I look out into the water and up deep into the stars. I beg the sparkling lanterns of light to cure me of myself – my past and the kaleidoscope of mistakes, failures and wrong turns that have stacked unbearable regret upon my shoulders.
And the geography of the thing–the geography of them–was completely and hopelessly wrong.
If I had an .MP3 of your heartbeat… I might actually get some sleep.
And it sucks, because I want to kiss her. It’s infuriating how perfect it would be to kiss her right now, perched on a cannon on a pirate ship under the stars. That sounds like something off the pages of an adventure novel. But my life isn’t one of those stories. My story is a hurricane, and here with Swift is just the eye.
You can only diffuse light in dark places.
A man would die tonight of lying out on the marshes, I thought. And then I looked at the stars, and considered how awful it would be for a man to turn his face up to them as he froze to death, and see no help or pitty in all the glittering multitude.
The stars were going out now, one by one, dropping like pennies behind the television aerials and the skylights and the washing strung between the chimneys. The sky was still dark – a sated, navy-blue woman – but the grass was jittery with the expectation of dawn.
I know that your soul is on life support and that you feel lost and like you’re completely spinning out of control, but you’re finding yourself – here, tonight… even in this darkness.
Stars were golden unicorns neighing unheard through blue meadows.