Thick hair, a handle. I’m curious.

On the bus this evening I discovered that I know more about comics than I ever suspected. Until earlier this evening, I was unaware that I could Talk them. Thank you Michel and Warren for this sudden gift fount of inner circle knowledge, the shipping dates, the companies. I’m starting to care about your obsessions, damn you both with caramel candy words laced with arsenic for irony. It must be the biscuits. Serve your work up with a little smile, get me trusting you then brainwash me into a little pageant consumer.

I missed Nicole at the train station, (a mismatch of places, self doubting transforming words into wandering. Maybe I was to find her somewhere else. There was a girl with long red hair who was pretty, but not pretty enough. It’s not her, am I in the wrong place? I stood with a book in hand finally, unmoving from a spot where anyone could see me, waiting out the rain. The water stopped falling as the minute hand on the clock shifted tock into half past five. The time of her appointment.) and met with a late Matthew outside of Golden Age. Mike was inside, behind the counter. We took him unprotesting from the customer free zone at six. Sean of the Dead night, (live long haired geekery piling between shifting towers of comics and DVDs that frame his furniture. They blow up a church with an ice-cream truck full of meat! Stacks, layers, compressed sedimentary fossil paper under a litter of poseable action figures and superhero collectibles.) The best part was the opening credits, a message in repetitious movement, like in Titus.

I repeat the nicest mistakes. The ones that aren’t, but should be. The ones that taste like strawberries. There’s a cello sweep of hair and a long held sigh. Someone’s been talking about me, getting a permission, perhaps, of a sort that I’m partially familiar with. It’s always a mass meets inertia situation, but this time she has her own language of words to add. A spice settlement of something I don’t know yet. It’s not another secret, but another stability; these whispered trips into being comfortable. You’ll never know where you know me from until you’re there. Rules of truth snap like the skin of a fruit under my teeth, the feel of a rail under your hand as you step down the stairs. I’ve only been back two days and I can sleep again. There’s a level which tells of suspicion, everything’s too easy, but then I remember all the good things always were.