From Locust Ave to Lindbergh Drive, we swam through blue, green, red, and more blue lights. Each its own- each blinking, ever patiently, howling like forgotten wolves into the moss-forest of the night. Blink. We're halfway through our run and see the state prison to the right. The sky-high electric fence reminds me of the tense, forced, metal-mouth smiles of my grade school days. "Thank god," I think. Blink. Above Radiohead's mellow sound we hear something. Without hesitating, our eardrums smile, greet it, and offer it a strong drink. Blink. My bracelet is caught on Henry's coat and I laugh and then my cheeks blush past pushed roses but I don't care I'm floating on in the indifferent dark watching the lights slow dance outside my window and I cough in an attempt at covering my revocation of our material, jewel-on-leather connection until just then- Blink- just then- Blink- I unleash my seat-belt chains- Blink- roll down the window-Blink- and fling my soul into the night, attempting to catch the airplane in its splendor of power with a poor fisherman's net. It teases me then laughs in a fleeting, almost-kiss. Blink. I look down at my hands. Blink. I light a cigarette. Blink. I realize that we're really hunting planes on these memory-erasing rides- not running with them- but from our lives. We're sad and twisted, blink-ing, unimportant lights, each of us in solely in love with tomorrow.
