i'm strange in the sense that on hot summer days i wonder what it was like to be our grandparents seventy something years ago fighting the war in similar weather. and that the idea of the heat and wool uniforms and the struggle they faced warms my heart in such odd ways. a bit of bravery, some heartache, and to be a part of something greater is the sentiment i suppose. it hurts my heart to think of us melting away into that ever greater swell of retrospection; the complexity we created becomes a rotting shipwreck on a foreign coast. your muddled words become fragments of old films, the lead roles played by actors who died while our own parents were in their infancy. the black and white glows burn beneath skin. a pressing of the tips of our noses brings the mad blend of inky coolness and burning warmth that seems to only contradict so splendidly when we find ourselves naked and close. you have a character which can surely be traced back to an ancient ancestral bloodline which is completely estranged to that of my own. my top lip to your left clavicle was only made possible in the passing of time by the murderous expansions of our dusty empires.
