Sun was setting and so was I_. My hands are so dry. I open a beer. Okay but hold your hand out, I am still here. I await your message. Ask me things; hold me. Don't let me slip through the potential of silence and distance. I am still here (for you, with you). The name might be different, the land has changed, I cry on these shoulders and they ask me for my id. I show it to them. I don't look them in the eyes. It's over, you lost your chance, you're facing weeks of non-work, what would this be? Let's hang out together ('sick woman theory'). Let's slide into that place of hanging out and hanging out, where work doesn't necessarily exist. All these rotating changes and thoughts and windows into new worlds, they are all here. We grow closer together, we begin to smell alike. All the while she wants to hunt me down. They called this love a poison and you agreed. It's state-altering and it's nice. You glance at them from across the room, their body making 8s and Ss. You've seen each other before, that is, if they see you at all. What a similarity it is to be in the same room over and over again; like a time hole but more of a .. slip. (...) You regain a body. The part of flesh that was theirs crawls back into you. There is now an under-muscle; and blood-flow accelerates. The first moment you notice this is when they take you to a Brazilian bar and you get the buffet option. Eternal warmth overtakes you; you are being filled by love in bites. Friends take you on long walks into unknown destinations of thought. There are homes and oranges, banana breads, silver tops and homesteads. You get into that space where you dream together, where dreaming means drawing a version of the present that crystallises when you sit squeezed together on a bed. The lids grow heavier and you fall on their shoulders, you are held just the way you've been held back then. There is nothing you need, there is nothing you want. More. Than. This.