Late Saturday
No matter how much you’d like to act like it doesn’t, it hurts. It hurts wide desolate landscapes, geographies of memory and thought. Dreams and patterns washed-out and turned yearning and empty. There is the desire to turn actor and play the role of nonchalance. C’est la vie and the abundance of fish in the sea and all that. Nuggets of truth there — but still a charade.
In the end, you just have to admit that it hurts.