This happened a while ago (in college terms, last weekend or the one before may as well be a century past), but it is a good story, so I will tell it anyway. This is the edit, the edict, the result of many artistic liberties taken on my part. Begin. I am in my own place, high. A bubble, a shell, as illusive as heat waves, it shimmers but cannot by broken by bass or treble, or your voice running through the scales. This is why I seem withdrawn. A child can blow bubbles made of soap and water, a molecular solution. I conjure mine, personal carbon and carbon dioxide. A tobacco cloud. Will, however, communes with his own invented forces of nature. Red eyes like glass, yet never so intense as when he taps into the pain of marble and granite. Martyr and the hope for the world. "Will, do the robot!" (Jenny bounces and waves like the curls in her hair, a blur of browns and pinks and kaleidescope eyes) Will (picking his fingers up from stroking a concrete barrier) exerts his singularity in the Great Struggle. "HOW," (breathless indignation), "can I do the robot when I am trying to take down technology?" Loam and dirt on his fingertips becomes warpaint, and he does the Crip Walk instead. And then, this. Saturday night we made our excursion into Cleveland Park, into the dark, down the hall down the stairs and into a Brazilian nightclub-slash-bar. I made friends with Brazilian girls who wanted to be American. I assured them of their own cultural significance, and they taught me to dance to samba. Many shots of tequila were consumed. Salt and liquor and reggaeton and lime, and Andre the birthday boy, no, man, twenty and tiny and so so so so drunk. I am terrified to grow up. To shape up. After such a record-holding four days, I skipped both my classes on Friday and both today. Instead, I spent the latter part of my weekend being domestic in Olney. I lay in his bed and I walked his dog, filled tanks with gas and watched Magnolia draw pictures of chairs. If life could be simple, if love could be easy, then I would not spend days on the rack of my own mind. I have said it before and I will say it again: love is a journey (everything is a journey, oh holy fools) and I am trying to let my mind rest in that knowledge. My question, and my general point, I suppose, is this; is anyone else, out there, happy? Truly happy? Happy enough to realize that happiness is not all good times, tickle fights, and orgasms (although all those are important). Is anyone else in love? Does anyone else fall in love as easily, yet as hard, as I do? Hello? Anyone?