its all about the kind of night when you listen to Leonard Cohen and think about the girls you used to pretend to know

and its not true that they were illusions because the words were plain as day and besides they made you feel human for a bit so do not laugh there is no time and the air is heavy anyway there is only yesterday an excuse for mourning today

so you sit and slightly dance because it feels like the right thing to say and you're talking to a girl who may be a man but you've known her too long to start caring besides the night is young though not as young as you and besides the day is over and you have nothing else to do

the music turns lush as the place turns and all your words become mere figments and fragments and all the girls you used to know may have been you talking in your sleep but you put stock in dreams so it probably does not matter and though there are grosser things to do then this it does not diminish the absence of her kiss though her lips were made of tin and newsprint they tasted sweeter then her words could ever

and things dribble in little drabs of colour like the blinking of a mouse which is as close as you'll ever get to her hand and you'd preposition her if you knew what the word meant and if it meant 'make love through little boxes' because you hate inaccuracy and that would be the only right definition and as the lines get longer and your head starts pounding you know you don't know how to end it

so as night falls gently you rock backwards and wonder why it was begun at all

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