Love 2

3:55

The numbers on the alarm clock were flashing.

And then the beat collapsed.

And you said
It was like fire around the brim

But the song, it just kept playing, so I turned up the volume all the way; I shoved the headphones into my ears and I stared at the floor, I stared through it, burning imaginary holes through the wood, refusing to give in, letting my eardrums soak in the bass line...

There was no structure, just pure memory; there was fire, and there were bed sheets, and white walls, yes, I remember the walls, I remember them, and they were white, and I kept staring into the floor, letting it all wash over me.

Burning solid
Burning thin the burning rim

They were still flashing, and it wasn't over yet. And I kept looking at the floor, my head turned, my body perched on the side of the bed, and my hands, like claws, contorted, and I remembered.

There was dark, and I couldn't see anything, but I could remember...I could remember her.

3:56

She'd turned the lights off, and all of the sudden the beat hit me again, plunging me into a sea of noise, and my world slowed down, and I heard steps, steps outside, but I didn't pay attention; I just kept staring into the floor, trying to remember.

Like stars burning holes right through the dark
Flicking fire like saltwater into my eyes

And there it was again, there was passion, there was orange and red and there was wind and rain, but our fire, no, it didn't go out, no, our fire...and I turned it up louder. The snare drum snapped like the second hand on a clock...

There was a burst...

3:57

And she was gone.

And everything is going to the beat
And everything is going to the beat
And everything is going

Aproximación #1

One day as I was walked,

and began to lose my sense of time,

a familiar yellow friend

found its way into my mind.


And when I saw

the sun in the trees

I had to stop there

and think

why,

why must all of this be?


But there was some comfort

in those broken rays

some stillness found in remembering

those long-forgotten days

those afternoons when we'd

hidden ourselves away

losing our memories

somewhere in the depths of May.

Life 3

"She's beautiful."

"Yes," he smiled. "She died 15 years ago."

I know I'm just a punk. I'm just a kid who's never loved anything or anyone more than he's loved himself, one who's really never seen the world beyond this 13" screen, one who's just another number, just another person who gets up every day and scrapes his elbows against the cubicle as it shrinks around him. I'm caught up in these cycles of life, these inhuman rhythms we're told to hopscotch our way through, carrot dangling in front of us, thinking we've got a better shot at that orange stick than everyone before us.

He was shorter than me. And much older. He'd run the race...and maybe he'd lost. That's what most would say, I think, if they saw him, as I did, slowly fumble for another nickel. But I didn't see that.

I saw them together. Pianos and guitars were playing somewhere...a jazzy melody with just a twinge of melancholy floating lightheartedly above the bass line. There was wind. And the wind, I watched it, I smelled it, I tasted it as it buffeted against her dress, blowing away the flower he'd picked for her from its comfortable resting place behind her ear. But she didn't care, because she was with him, and I could see it.

I could see it. He felt like the luckiest chum in the world.

But with a snap I blinked, and all of a sudden I was in the real world again.

The cycle continued.

And he was gone.

For a minute there,
I lost myself.

I lost myself.