Is the rarest thing I know –
so said Hemingway. Boy, my days have
Remember last Summer? I flew my sister halfway around the world
so she could sit on the couch in the room next to me
a weird, post-Frozen parody,
with a wall between us. I didn’t want to
build anything. I couldn’t even choose
a fucking bar.
“You choose”: in the world are there any
two more uncomforting words
in the anxiety almanac? But I am made of something chemically enhanced,
I bounce. I bounce back.
I am still afraid. I am afraid of everything. A small sample:
wasps (since childhood, never stung)
open sea, throat cancer (still smoking)
and crowds. For the last I red-ragged the bull and bought a flat in Mongkok.
No catch, except strategic deep breaths on the
MTR steps –
but mostly I am afraid of people and by people I mean me
You have no idea what you could do.
Happiness in intelligent people
is the rarest thing I know –
oh Ernest, I thought that too
you have no idea how much misery appeals to me but dude,
you never fell asleep in the arms of a love
so fierce it grew teeth.