You wake up slowly, as if trying to hang on to something slipping back into the darkness. You roll uncomfortably of bed (and out of that notion) and begin layering yourself with old spice and fabric and fabric and fabric and mint flavored toothpaste in that order. Time passes. Not a cloud in the sky because they're all in your head. Rivers of caffeine and epinephrine and indignation wind through the Grand Canyon of your cortex and you can't tell which ones you put there yourself and which ones have been there since your birth. But it doesn't matter because that girl in your biology lecture has worn flannel for a week and a half and you're starting to believe she's doing it to you personally.
Traffic moves along in tectonic rifts and you don't notice it. Half a world away, masses perish and you don't notice it. Day melts into night melts into day melts into night and you do not notice it. It's fine; life is a single, springy question mark and you live in a fucking city built for drunk teenagers.
But surely the number of time-zones that exist inside your eyes is the equal to the number of goosebumps I feel raise on my arms when I see you, because this feeling could only be derived from such perfect symmetry. A goddamn three piece band plays in my head as the elevator swallows you up. It reminds me of the first time I saw light back in early October of '94.
