levity: (costume party)
Ang sakit ng paa ko. Sobrang sakit ng paa ko. Walang mas sasakit pa sa paa ko. Pero first place ang lantern naming hinabol namin ni Allison paikot ng UPM para ibalik lahat ng mga bagay-bagay na nahuhulog habang umiikot siya at nakapag-simbang gabi kami kahit na sa Jollibee lang rin kami napunta pagkatapos at nakita ko si Guia, di bale nang nandoon rin si Nikolo Bathan. (Alam nyo naman na mahal na mahal ko kayong pareho.) Kailangan ko nang matulog, pero.

---

I don't know what I will do if it turns out that I will never get to see David Villa play again. I just don't. And that is all I am going to say about it, because Guaje.

---

Our lantern placed first and our drag queens didn't. Allison and I served as the on-the-spot parade repair team; I feel perversely proud that she and not I came up with the joke that went Buti na lang si Patrick yung nasa harapan, may siren tayo, huang, huang, huang. If you need to stop traffic, all you have to do is have Epi bring out his camera. Our IDC group's presentation more or less served as auditions for next year's LadyMed. And as per usual during the class Christmas party I sat at the table we'd claimed and wrote and smiled at all the kids hopping around and singing, and while what I really wanted to do was join them and sing secure in the knowledge that no one could hear me, well, no.

This is how you fall in love: to last-minute panic, scrambling for extension cords and spray paint and double-sided tape, running back and forth from apartment to PGH quad to East and feeling lighter than you had since summer. To the bright enthusiastic catharsis of loud and off-key singing and bass lines that match your heartbeat. Loves don't last forever, but that goes without saying. What matters is that they were there. Gods damn it.

---

On the way home from the class Christmas party I sat down in the middle of the driveway to CM from the PGH, right in front of the guardhouse that faces the med caf. It was one-thirty in the morning and I don't think I will ever have words for grey skies and the rainbow around the gibbous moon and the quality of the air between six at night and five in the morning, cool settling on your skin like dusk and ideas right on the border of the mind, just out of touch and Manila Manila Manila.

On the way home from the Diliman lantern parade this evening I forgot to get off at the corner of Commonwealth and Tandang Sora as per instructions and decided to walk home, hence proving that when presented with a range of options of varying levels of intelligence I will always pick the least intelligent one. Moral of the story is that Tandang Sora is a very long street. While I was walking Allison texted me to say that she bought Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy and sorry she forgot to pay me for utilities and could I please pay for them lest our electricity be cut off again. I replied (see, what did I tell you, least intelligent option, any day) not to worry about the bills and postscript I had no idea where I was. The real moral of the story is that I have no idea how I deserve any of them- Allison who is kind of on permanent babysitter duty, Billy who never stops being cheer and enthusiasm, Sedric who texted me out of the blue to say that he was still team DeLee Fuente (I will never stop laughing, NEVER EVER STOP LAUGHING), Ellie who calls me Stargirl. Guia and Niko, for ever. I say this a lot, but I don't think I can say it enough.
levity: (costume party)
Ang sakit ng paa ko. Sobrang sakit ng paa ko. Walang mas sasakit pa sa paa ko. Pero first place ang lantern naming hinabol namin ni Allison paikot ng UPM para ibalik lahat ng mga bagay-bagay na nahuhulog habang umiikot siya at nakapag-simbang gabi kami kahit na sa Jollibee lang rin kami napunta pagkatapos at nakita ko si Guia, di bale nang nandoon rin si Nikolo Bathan. (Alam nyo naman na mahal na mahal ko kayong pareho.) Kailangan ko nang matulog, pero.

---

I don't know what I will do if it turns out that I will never get to see David Villa play again. I just don't. And that is all I am going to say about it, because Guaje.

---

Our lantern placed first and our drag queens didn't. Allison and I served as the on-the-spot parade repair team; I feel perversely proud that she and not I came up with the joke that went Buti na lang si Patrick yung nasa harapan, may siren tayo, huang, huang, huang. If you need to stop traffic, all you have to do is have Epi bring out his camera. Our IDC group's presentation more or less served as auditions for next year's LadyMed. And as per usual during the class Christmas party I sat at the table we'd claimed and wrote and smiled at all the kids hopping around and singing, and while what I really wanted to do was join them and sing secure in the knowledge that no one could hear me, well, no.

This is how you fall in love: to last-minute panic, scrambling for extension cords and spray paint and double-sided tape, running back and forth from apartment to PGH quad to East and feeling lighter than you had since summer. To the bright enthusiastic catharsis of loud and off-key singing and bass lines that match your heartbeat. Loves don't last forever, but that goes without saying. What matters is that they were there. Gods damn it.

---

On the way home from the class Christmas party I sat down in the middle of the driveway to CM from the PGH, right in front of the guardhouse that faces the med caf. It was one-thirty in the morning and I don't think I will ever have words for grey skies and the rainbow around the gibbous moon and the quality of the air between six at night and five in the morning, cool settling on your skin like dusk and ideas right on the border of the mind, just out of touch and Manila Manila Manila.

On the way home from the Diliman lantern parade this evening I forgot to get off at the corner of Commonwealth and Tandang Sora as per instructions and decided to walk home, hence proving that when presented with a range of options of varying levels of intelligence I will always pick the least intelligent one. Moral of the story is that Tandang Sora is a very long street. While I was walking Allison texted me to say that she bought Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy and sorry she forgot to pay me for utilities and could I please pay for them lest our electricity be cut off again. I replied (see, what did I tell you, least intelligent option, any day) not to worry about the bills and postscript I had no idea where I was. The real moral of the story is that I have no idea how I deserve any of them- Allison who is kind of on permanent babysitter duty, Billy who never stops being cheer and enthusiasm, Sedric who texted me out of the blue to say that he was still team DeLee Fuente (I will never stop laughing, NEVER EVER STOP LAUGHING), Ellie who calls me Stargirl. Guia and Niko, for ever. I say this a lot, but I don't think I can say it enough.
levity: (evening stretched out against the sky)
Intarmed Christmas party at Ping Mang = best thing in the world. I see them every day and either way it'd be stupid to expect things to stay the same when med proper rolled about so I can't really say I miss the kids with any accuracy, but I kind of miss the kids anyway. (No, we will never graduate from being the Intarmedkids, ever.) Hindi nagbibigay ng 100 ang videoke ng Ping Mang- at grabe na lang 'yan, sina Gee at Ces na nga kumakanta, ayaw pang bigyan ng 100- pero alam naman naming magaling kami (depende na lang sa kahulugan mo ng magaling), so okay lang. And I'm writing this sitting on the floor of Allen's bedroom, right in front of the mirrored closet, with a metal cup of Coke (technically Pepsi) and rum. (At Ping Mang Sedric ordered a Coke with lemon and when it arrived Ginnie said, "Sedric! You can't drink that!" I love the Intarmedkids. It's not like a football club- too steady, too light, and not dramatic at all- but that doesn't make it mean any less.)

And I kind of spent the afternoon reading Sherlock Holmes fic, all the incarnations that were there, and all of a sudden I understood the logic behind Allison's verdict of high-functioning sociopath. My brain is still talking; I'm here because I want it to stop. You have no idea how many things I've done in the name of making my brain shut up.
levity: (evening stretched out against the sky)
Intarmed Christmas party at Ping Mang = best thing in the world. I see them every day and either way it'd be stupid to expect things to stay the same when med proper rolled about so I can't really say I miss the kids with any accuracy, but I kind of miss the kids anyway. (No, we will never graduate from being the Intarmedkids, ever.) Hindi nagbibigay ng 100 ang videoke ng Ping Mang- at grabe na lang 'yan, sina Gee at Ces na nga kumakanta, ayaw pang bigyan ng 100- pero alam naman naming magaling kami (depende na lang sa kahulugan mo ng magaling), so okay lang. And I'm writing this sitting on the floor of Allen's bedroom, right in front of the mirrored closet, with a metal cup of Coke (technically Pepsi) and rum. (At Ping Mang Sedric ordered a Coke with lemon and when it arrived Ginnie said, "Sedric! You can't drink that!" I love the Intarmedkids. It's not like a football club- too steady, too light, and not dramatic at all- but that doesn't make it mean any less.)

And I kind of spent the afternoon reading Sherlock Holmes fic, all the incarnations that were there, and all of a sudden I understood the logic behind Allison's verdict of high-functioning sociopath. My brain is still talking; I'm here because I want it to stop. You have no idea how many things I've done in the name of making my brain shut up.
levity: (clarity)
Immensely obvious fact: it is four in the morning. It is four in the morning and Carling Cup isn't showing and I'm tired and I've been trying to sleep since eleven and I haven't slept yet because my brain just won't. Shut. Up. What the hell, self. This is not how you do reasonable mature human being. I thought we were done with this whole inability-to-sleep thing. Fluffy hair and absurd levels of geekery and smiles like annihilation- well, I thought we were done with that, too.

---

At least nakahuli ako ng daga sa flypaper.
levity: (clarity)
Immensely obvious fact: it is four in the morning. It is four in the morning and Carling Cup isn't showing and I'm tired and I've been trying to sleep since eleven and I haven't slept yet because my brain just won't. Shut. Up. What the hell, self. This is not how you do reasonable mature human being. I thought we were done with this whole inability-to-sleep thing. Fluffy hair and absurd levels of geekery and smiles like annihilation- well, I thought we were done with that, too.

---

At least nakahuli ako ng daga sa flypaper.
levity: (costume party)
Night before last Allison played Baba O'Riley at me while I was in the kitchen washing dishes, and MJ, who'd passed by the house just because, mentioned that it was the first time he'd heard me sing. Can you believe that? I can, actually, easily. But thank goodness for this deliberate happiness, that let me go to the grocery with Allison and Orven, singing American Pie and trying in vain to remember all the words. I mistook lansones for small potatoes and accidentally put my conditioner in the ref when we got home and we sang Beatles songs and it was like nothing was wrong.

---

Yesterday morning I woke up at three in the morning to find out that Balls were televising the wrong game, and couldn't make my brain shut up enough to go to sleep. Arsenal won and the Barcelona-Milan game was fun and the San Siro sounded wonderful and Boateng's goal and subsequent celebratory somersaults were a joy, but really, why is the day I have to run on three hours of sleep is the one I don't have to get up at 6:30.

---

I TRP because I never stopped loving singing and I missed being part of a production, I TRP because this past stupid horrible wonderful year music has been my lifeblood, music and football and fanfic, and this song, Laklak na ng kape mag-sugar high sa tsokolate, it isn't my attempt at it but it's a pretty good one, I TRP for Jasper singing soprano and Jasper singing alto and Jasper singing tenor and Jasper's facial expressions when conducting, but mostly I TRP for the Intarmedkids. It's their baby, Jasper's and Ces's and Gee's and Inah Jane's and Amag's, sort of the way Mediscene is mine. I wonder if there's a chorale equivalent for that moment when that mess of lines and blocking and gestures becomes a play (side note: I didn't have that moment last year, and when the actual thing rolled around I was a basket of nerves and only barely keeping my head because someone had to, and Vince and Jio burst out laughing onstage in the middle of Allison's funeral but they pulled it off anyway)- it's not the same, because we have to warm up every day before we start to sound passable, but if I were to say it'd be that evening we first finished the song, in a room on the first floor of the SSWC, when Jasper got us to sing the second chorus just right, soft and gently sliding into the coda, and I knew what we could sound like, if we tried hard enough.

And here I'll say again what I know in my bones every time I put on a play: these are swathes and swathes of time and effort and energy we're losing, and there's no way we can earn back enough to break even. But we can't not. So here's to us.

---

Talked with Igitot earlier this afternoon, while I was downloading and printing all the lecture notes. He talked about his Twihard cousins and universitying in Canada and the time he got stuck in an elevator because he jumped, and I gave him cadaver stories and laughed at how he'd gotten used to speaking in English. There are so many people I miss.

---

Had a cringeworthy conversation with Allen yesterday, too, and then took the two trains to Mega, singing all the things I'll never be able to say. I'm gonna steer clear/I'd burn up in your atmosphere. You're the direction I follow to get home. Which, I guess, is what music is there for. Forget regret, or life is yours to miss. I'll cover you.
levity: (costume party)
Night before last Allison played Baba O'Riley at me while I was in the kitchen washing dishes, and MJ, who'd passed by the house just because, mentioned that it was the first time he'd heard me sing. Can you believe that? I can, actually, easily. But thank goodness for this deliberate happiness, that let me go to the grocery with Allison and Orven, singing American Pie and trying in vain to remember all the words. I mistook lansones for small potatoes and accidentally put my conditioner in the ref when we got home and we sang Beatles songs and it was like nothing was wrong.

---

Yesterday morning I woke up at three in the morning to find out that Balls were televising the wrong game, and couldn't make my brain shut up enough to go to sleep. Arsenal won and the Barcelona-Milan game was fun and the San Siro sounded wonderful and Boateng's goal and subsequent celebratory somersaults were a joy, but really, why is the day I have to run on three hours of sleep is the one I don't have to get up at 6:30.

---

I TRP because I never stopped loving singing and I missed being part of a production, I TRP because this past stupid horrible wonderful year music has been my lifeblood, music and football and fanfic, and this song, Laklak na ng kape mag-sugar high sa tsokolate, it isn't my attempt at it but it's a pretty good one, I TRP for Jasper singing soprano and Jasper singing alto and Jasper singing tenor and Jasper's facial expressions when conducting, but mostly I TRP for the Intarmedkids. It's their baby, Jasper's and Ces's and Gee's and Inah Jane's and Amag's, sort of the way Mediscene is mine. I wonder if there's a chorale equivalent for that moment when that mess of lines and blocking and gestures becomes a play (side note: I didn't have that moment last year, and when the actual thing rolled around I was a basket of nerves and only barely keeping my head because someone had to, and Vince and Jio burst out laughing onstage in the middle of Allison's funeral but they pulled it off anyway)- it's not the same, because we have to warm up every day before we start to sound passable, but if I were to say it'd be that evening we first finished the song, in a room on the first floor of the SSWC, when Jasper got us to sing the second chorus just right, soft and gently sliding into the coda, and I knew what we could sound like, if we tried hard enough.

And here I'll say again what I know in my bones every time I put on a play: these are swathes and swathes of time and effort and energy we're losing, and there's no way we can earn back enough to break even. But we can't not. So here's to us.

---

Talked with Igitot earlier this afternoon, while I was downloading and printing all the lecture notes. He talked about his Twihard cousins and universitying in Canada and the time he got stuck in an elevator because he jumped, and I gave him cadaver stories and laughed at how he'd gotten used to speaking in English. There are so many people I miss.

---

Had a cringeworthy conversation with Allen yesterday, too, and then took the two trains to Mega, singing all the things I'll never be able to say. I'm gonna steer clear/I'd burn up in your atmosphere. You're the direction I follow to get home. Which, I guess, is what music is there for. Forget regret, or life is yours to miss. I'll cover you.
levity: (evening stretched out against the sky)
Walked home alone from TRP chorale practice this evening, singing teenage wasteland, only teenage wasteland at the top of my lungs. My idea of heaven is red boots and streetlights and headphones and Pedro Gil washed down with rain, loose limbs and half-baked ideas rising like tendrils of smoke and night falling with its requisite mid-November sense of urgency. I don't think I've been happier since the Chelsea game. Still cannot write and I have an exam coming up, as they always will, and my throat hurts like all hell. Do I care? Too damn happy to.
levity: (evening stretched out against the sky)
Walked home alone from TRP chorale practice this evening, singing teenage wasteland, only teenage wasteland at the top of my lungs. My idea of heaven is red boots and streetlights and headphones and Pedro Gil washed down with rain, loose limbs and half-baked ideas rising like tendrils of smoke and night falling with its requisite mid-November sense of urgency. I don't think I've been happier since the Chelsea game. Still cannot write and I have an exam coming up, as they always will, and my throat hurts like all hell. Do I care? Too damn happy to.
levity: (desire lives in the heart)
Public service announcement: staying awake until 5:30 in the morning reading football fanfic and alternately sobbing hysterically three years too late over Xabi leaving Liverpool and Stevie G and laughing hysterically over Ibra in the Underworld and Impossible is nothing is, to say the least, definitely not how you do reasonable mature human being.

But perfect lines, perfect lines, and a demonstration of how fandom always knows what to say (from [livejournal.com profile] conspiire's All the Hearts in the World):

The aftermath of being in love is nothing but a mere return to normalcy. Falling out of love is considerably less painful than, say, falling out of a tree, or falling off a cliff. But normalcy is gutting at the best of times, and who wants to go back? No, falling out of love is the equivalent of the fall of the gods. The process of rebuilding and restoring them is feverish, staggering. But the alternative is living in a world with no gods, and that, well. No.
levity: (desire lives in the heart)
Public service announcement: staying awake until 5:30 in the morning reading football fanfic and alternately sobbing hysterically three years too late over Xabi leaving Liverpool and Stevie G and laughing hysterically over Ibra in the Underworld and Impossible is nothing is, to say the least, definitely not how you do reasonable mature human being.

But perfect lines, perfect lines, and a demonstration of how fandom always knows what to say (from [livejournal.com profile] conspiire's All the Hearts in the World):

The aftermath of being in love is nothing but a mere return to normalcy. Falling out of love is considerably less painful than, say, falling out of a tree, or falling off a cliff. But normalcy is gutting at the best of times, and who wants to go back? No, falling out of love is the equivalent of the fall of the gods. The process of rebuilding and restoring them is feverish, staggering. But the alternative is living in a world with no gods, and that, well. No.
levity: (clarity)
Then, Éowyn of Rohan, I say to you that you are beautiful. In the valleys of our hills there are flowers fair and bright, and maidens fairer still; but neither flower nor lady have I seen till now in Gondor so lovely, and so sorrowful. It may be that only a few days are left ere darkness falls upon our world, and when it comes I hope to face it steadily; but it would ease my heart, if while the Sun yet shines, I could see you still. For you and I have both passed under the wings of the Shadow, and the same hand drew us back.
levity: (clarity)
Then, Éowyn of Rohan, I say to you that you are beautiful. In the valleys of our hills there are flowers fair and bright, and maidens fairer still; but neither flower nor lady have I seen till now in Gondor so lovely, and so sorrowful. It may be that only a few days are left ere darkness falls upon our world, and when it comes I hope to face it steadily; but it would ease my heart, if while the Sun yet shines, I could see you still. For you and I have both passed under the wings of the Shadow, and the same hand drew us back.
levity: (true love and high adventure)
I can never say it enough times, and even if I did I am not sure anyone can appreciate the magnitude of the sentiment, but I have to say it: thank God for Allison Noel and Isabella Supnet. Thank God for housemates who if inadvertently prevent me from accidentally dying of suffocation in my own room and long showers and music players and [livejournal.com profile] guede_mazaka 's fanfiction and corned beef hash and Pepe Reina. Thank God for friends I will never deserve. I want to put up banners, hire airplanes to write messages across the sky. I'M SANE NOW. PROMISE. AND ALSO INCREDIBLY SORRY, AND INCREDIBLY GRATEFUL. This incredibly shitty week and I am still the luckiest person I know.
levity: (true love and high adventure)
I can never say it enough times, and even if I did I am not sure anyone can appreciate the magnitude of the sentiment, but I have to say it: thank God for Allison Noel and Isabella Supnet. Thank God for housemates who if inadvertently prevent me from accidentally dying of suffocation in my own room and long showers and music players and [livejournal.com profile] guede_mazaka 's fanfiction and corned beef hash and Pepe Reina. Thank God for friends I will never deserve. I want to put up banners, hire airplanes to write messages across the sky. I'M SANE NOW. PROMISE. AND ALSO INCREDIBLY SORRY, AND INCREDIBLY GRATEFUL. This incredibly shitty week and I am still the luckiest person I know.
levity: (desire lives in the heart)
Sometimes the English language is almost-irredeemably inadequate for all the things I want to say.

---

Apparently I am not enough of a cliche to be writing this at two in the morning while sitting at Billy's desk in the dark the early morning of our Biochem exam, trying my very best to spin a pen and thinking of Virginia Woolf. It's Orven's fault, really. He asked about the young Indian girl who was being compared to her, only she was in actuality being compared to Emily Dickinson. When the topic comes up of course you have to latch onto it, and maybe bring up Sylvia Plath and her gas oven suicide and how her husband's second wife went on to commit suicide the same way, and so I did. I may be not-cliche enough to be writing this in East during lecture instead of in the sweltering heat of pre-storm Metro Manila during the dead hours, but in every other aspect I live up to expectations.

"Personally I like Virginia Woolf's suicide note better," I said, only half on autopilot, because there are only a choice few things that are interesting at one in the morning, and genetics isn't one of them.

Allison turned to Billy. "You know what, she worries me when she talks about liking suicide notes."

I tried to clarify, best as anyone could qualify anything with an exam in seven hours and five transes to go. "No, no, it's romantic. She tells her huband that if anyone could be happy it would have been them, only yeah." My ability to convey depth and emotion amazes even me, sometimes.

Allison was still talking to Billy. "But now she has someone to send romantic suicide notes to."

I had more sense than to say that if I could write anything the way Virginia Woolf could write suicide notes then I could go and walk into the Pasig with my pockets full of stones for all I cared, and not just because I've long since been over that phase. (I could have been a decent-at-best footballer, yeah?) I had more sense than to say that that's actually a very convenient bonus of being in love, an addressee for all the metaphors attached to otherwise-directionless emotions, or ideas of emotions. My favorite TedTalk speech is still Elizabeth Gilbert's, where she talks about what I have to call, despite all my distaste for the term, the creative process, the inspiration behind and the belief in the divinity thereof. Making the connection is a bit of an exaggeration, because I'm not doing anything yet, but I'm still alive and I'm enjoying it, so maybe that's good enough. For anyone else, it would be. There is nothing of the divine in him- he will be the first to agree with this sentiment- which means that everything is, I guess.

I would write him coliseums, if I had them, if I could. I would write him coliseums and broadsheet dreams and trains at four-thirty in the afternoon, just before the people start pouring in, sunlight flooding the floors. Cold roads leading up mountains and crater lakes and blue-and-black sea snakes cutting through schools of fish. Streets that smell like ocean and vehicle exhaust and jungle backyards burning and every single glorious thing I've lived. I would write him love stories, I would write the crazy sprawling soap opera that is The Epic if I could, because it's what he deserves, because there's no point and no end result in saying I kind of permanently want to hug you except when I want to kiss you except when- and also to go along in that vein would mean upping the rating, which, no.

The point is: no suicide notes. Notebooks filled with the specific self-absorption of adoration only a little more optional than gravity, apparently. Epics, if I could get my head out of my head enough to make them work. And if all this writing would maybe one day enable me to write the one word, the one sentence, that would protect him from the grief at the center of- who the hell are we kidding- at the center of everything human then I could start feeling like I can pay back all I owe.
levity: (desire lives in the heart)
Sometimes the English language is almost-irredeemably inadequate for all the things I want to say.

---

Apparently I am not enough of a cliche to be writing this at two in the morning while sitting at Billy's desk in the dark the early morning of our Biochem exam, trying my very best to spin a pen and thinking of Virginia Woolf. It's Orven's fault, really. He asked about the young Indian girl who was being compared to her, only she was in actuality being compared to Emily Dickinson. When the topic comes up of course you have to latch onto it, and maybe bring up Sylvia Plath and her gas oven suicide and how her husband's second wife went on to commit suicide the same way, and so I did. I may be not-cliche enough to be writing this in East during lecture instead of in the sweltering heat of pre-storm Metro Manila during the dead hours, but in every other aspect I live up to expectations.

"Personally I like Virginia Woolf's suicide note better," I said, only half on autopilot, because there are only a choice few things that are interesting at one in the morning, and genetics isn't one of them.

Allison turned to Billy. "You know what, she worries me when she talks about liking suicide notes."

I tried to clarify, best as anyone could qualify anything with an exam in seven hours and five transes to go. "No, no, it's romantic. She tells her huband that if anyone could be happy it would have been them, only yeah." My ability to convey depth and emotion amazes even me, sometimes.

Allison was still talking to Billy. "But now she has someone to send romantic suicide notes to."

I had more sense than to say that if I could write anything the way Virginia Woolf could write suicide notes then I could go and walk into the Pasig with my pockets full of stones for all I cared, and not just because I've long since been over that phase. (I could have been a decent-at-best footballer, yeah?) I had more sense than to say that that's actually a very convenient bonus of being in love, an addressee for all the metaphors attached to otherwise-directionless emotions, or ideas of emotions. My favorite TedTalk speech is still Elizabeth Gilbert's, where she talks about what I have to call, despite all my distaste for the term, the creative process, the inspiration behind and the belief in the divinity thereof. Making the connection is a bit of an exaggeration, because I'm not doing anything yet, but I'm still alive and I'm enjoying it, so maybe that's good enough. For anyone else, it would be. There is nothing of the divine in him- he will be the first to agree with this sentiment- which means that everything is, I guess.

I would write him coliseums, if I had them, if I could. I would write him coliseums and broadsheet dreams and trains at four-thirty in the afternoon, just before the people start pouring in, sunlight flooding the floors. Cold roads leading up mountains and crater lakes and blue-and-black sea snakes cutting through schools of fish. Streets that smell like ocean and vehicle exhaust and jungle backyards burning and every single glorious thing I've lived. I would write him love stories, I would write the crazy sprawling soap opera that is The Epic if I could, because it's what he deserves, because there's no point and no end result in saying I kind of permanently want to hug you except when I want to kiss you except when- and also to go along in that vein would mean upping the rating, which, no.

The point is: no suicide notes. Notebooks filled with the specific self-absorption of adoration only a little more optional than gravity, apparently. Epics, if I could get my head out of my head enough to make them work. And if all this writing would maybe one day enable me to write the one word, the one sentence, that would protect him from the grief at the center of- who the hell are we kidding- at the center of everything human then I could start feeling like I can pay back all I owe.

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