And just like that routine washes back over me. I'm trying to explain something to you, something that's bothering me, something I need help with and you're plucking at that guitar while I talk. The strap is around your neck and you're holding it as I attempt to explain something to you with which I need your "design expertise". I want to smash the thing. Throw it into the wall behin you and break it's neck off. I don't hate the guitar. It's lovely, really. So lovely I see the reason you posess so many. I don't need constant attention. Just give me my due attention when I ask for it. Otherwise bury yourself in notes and sound, catalogs and bad television, real estate thinkings and business ventures.
I'm stressed again. You have bruised your arm dunking the basketball. I see the bruise on your wrist, so lovely and blue. It's like a blooming corsage turned wrong on your inner wrist. I want one. You hold it and say that it doesn't hurt, but I think it must hurt and you say that it doesn't. I hold three fingers over the inside of my wrist and imagine the bruise is mine just for a moment, but when it's mine it hurts. I can feel it. Every movement leaves me with a cranky ache.
I'm stressed again. You have bruised your arm dunking the basketball. I see the bruise on your wrist, so lovely and blue. It's like a blooming corsage turned wrong on your inner wrist. I want one. You hold it and say that it doesn't hurt, but I think it must hurt and you say that it doesn't. I hold three fingers over the inside of my wrist and imagine the bruise is mine just for a moment, but when it's mine it hurts. I can feel it. Every movement leaves me with a cranky ache.