It is the unknown, it is the foreign and the explicit. The idea that someone somewhere is feeling the same thing that I do, it is a kind of empathy, we see ourselves mirrored. And like narcissists we think of ourselves and we recollect how we felt, but they worded it better in a cleverer sentence. Hanging out at the old taxidermist friend’s with a bag of weed and fourteen hours to burn.
And once again for a little while I’m 14 and on drugs and can still feel the euphoria of the first night I ever did amphetamines. I miss the world of people that hated who they were and could talk about it for hours because that was all they had. I miss being fucked-up and unified in a that awkward state of affairs.
I still have all your letters my friend.
A collection of, by Pseu.
