Of restlessness. Of days and months of longing for it to be June, again. Too hot nights sweating through layers of deodorant and tank-tops. Loud music and houses full of people. Even May, because May was a good month, it usually is. In May things start to happen again. No more of this, oh God no more of this. These are the times that try ragamuffin's souls. Days of monotony. I desperately want someone new. Taking everything as some possible omen. Too much. If I could hibernate through these months I would. In January it will start to turn, a little. New Years sucks but usually things pick up a little afterwards, for me. February is not so bad. I want my friend to come home. I want to crawl into bed and feel someone's arms go around me, press my face into the back of their neck and hear them grumble in their sleep.
The moon in Phoenix, Arizona is never blue. Billie Holliday will never wake to a lover's bed or a gloomy Sunday morning beneath the impersonal desert sun. In this cracked dustscape of high schools and nursing homes it is inevitable that one's thoughts be recycled. I imagine a vast shuffling sigh of disappointment when Armageddon fails to arrive, like guests at a never-ending dinner party to which the guest of honor fails to ever make his much postponed dramatic entrance. Is growing up always this disappointing?
