“It’s just that,” Patrick pauses, frisks his left pocket for
a wished for smoke until realizing the he is currently smoking one right now.
“I mean, this whole solar system and galaxy and neon mini-golf course and
fucking cross-shaped hallways that is so refulgent it turns you into Ray Charles
the moment you slink inside—what if all this stuff is for is just to blind you
to the real truths about life, as to why we’re here—as to what our purpose is.”
Patrick
feels like saying another you know, asking Hyacinth if she has ever felt that
was only he can tell by the look in her eyes that she is extremely bored by the
scenario. It is autumn and Patrick can still smells the nutmeg aura of Cabbages
McGranahans Dickens Cider wafting down the terminal like corridors of central
plank. After Levi watts ill-timely photographed a rather excited Hale winning
his annual autumnal streak by a head, Hale was flown out to the Playboy mansion
and presented with the Dirk Diggler
award for
Hyacinth shoots
Patrick an insinuating look. Patrick envisions her turning into him, saying
something like you mean there’s more to this only we just can’t see it—we have
to somehow experience it and feel it, to which Patrick would inevitably move in
for the kill and feel the contours of her lips around his. He still wishes that
was her instead of her mom in her parents bedroom two weeks prior, which, come
to think of it, wasn’t that bad. Patrick doesn’t like to think about how his
first sexual encounter was with someone who would have been a sophomore in high
school around the time his father was a junior in college.
No comments:
Post a Comment