... I suppose that going forward trains will also remind me of a vibrating phone that calmly jolted me from the astral to the surreal without so much as a statutory disclaimer that I was entering the 'real' world which was ten times more bizarre than anything my subconscious could contrive of. Hovering on the blurry line between the two, I was closer to instinct than reason as I mumbled a hello. Then again, I suppose he's entitled to that split second of vulnerability in me after all we've... he's... been through.
Moving on isn't really about quiet resignation and that load of shit. It's about when you say fuck it, I don't care, and still mean that ten minutes later. I've often worried that I'm entirely heartless, particularly when I think of him. But a more adequate summation would be that I'm an expert at moving on. It's probably that superficiality that people confuse for some unfathomable depth in me.
Ephemeral destiny... that's a nice tag on the cruel fickle personality that's me.
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