She talks to me about splitting my 24 hours into periods of 60 minutes, then 60 seconds... And I merely feel that same familiar anguish that I've never really understood. The next day I stand in direct sunligh in the graveyard and I'm not even cold, I watch the yellow and red lights swimming on the inside of my eyelids and I think of summer on the Baltic Sea. A man smiles at me and I want to be more like Henk Hofstede.
You can't tell if I'm serious or not. I look at people pretending to be accomplishing a lot and I think, "Fuck, that's it", and I walk back home and try to think of something else. There are more blank spots in my memory than I want to admit.
He has long hair and he laughs. I'm a paranoid idiot elitist shit. He wondered if she had some information about swamps that the rest of us lack. You can't tell if I'm serious or not.
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