Like Fish On The Wall

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Towards the weekend I was feeling pretty fine,
no more fever. The drugs must have taken effect. What to do, what to do? I decided to abuse my leave privileges and spend time with snowgurl, who was conveniently in town for who knows what sort of mischief, haha.

We had fun. Thrown in among the weekend cast of characters was a long-locked surfer dude, a man whose memory of me did not involve being pregnant, a smattering of artist types, a well-preserved Cadillac inside a room, fish swimming on the walls, some nasty poster art, a huge lighter, and a strange bearded man who was also a skilled shopper.

I quickly adapted to going out at night again, after months of hibernation. Daylight sheds too much truth on all matters. We have most of our guard up during the day. Ah, but when darkness falls, fish fly through the walls. For a brief time there, I was able to swim among the night crowd, surrounded by all that staccato conversation, the wine-laced laughter, the random pairings, the meeting of eyes across a smoky room. Transporting me, what—three, five, seven years ago to another time?

Trust my former life to turn surreal on me. Or really, was it the drugs?


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