This weekend has been a blur. Faces, places, boardwalk lights. Smiles, telephone numbers. Wishing I could stay, wishing I could touch you. Fingertips, lips, teeth, bookstore stacks and you and I, and Dear God, I miss you. Mallratting has become a game. Can you get away with stealing that? Can I find someone to feed my imagined addictions? Answer: no/yes, yes/no/yes. 60% is not a bad turnout. You have your cigarettes, your tank-tops, flip-flops, pop-tops. Neon lights. Butane flames. What am I left with? Cigarette hair, 12 am, your phone number. I watched the tide tonight, and it affected me like I knew it would. It made me feel alive, young. Screaming in the background, stomach clenching, money betting. But I felt infinite. Claimed infinance in carrying on those conversations. Just words. I made every one count, or at least tried. It's a process, I'm improving. Life's too short to shoot the breeze.