Filed under: English
After one beer a few sips of whiskey sitting on the deck in Oregon of all places the lake right there cracking sounds like laser shots psiew psiew there’s a fire on the ice and people you just met this is what life looks like when you’ve been away from home (but Ursula said you can go home again [...] so long as you understand that home is a place where you have never been) for so long that you barely remember what your phone number is. After a few drinks not so many you can still drive the truck up the hill you can still ice-skate play hockey on the lake but there’s this languid desire to feel someone’s lips on yours to fall in love to feel your heart beat faster only for a minute while you have this first conversation that might lead you maybe to- who knows- everyone knows that foggy place full of cotton-candy and cold lakes. It’s only the warm liquid you know it but still. Still.
