Occasionally I don't have to sit around trying to figure out whether I'm happy or not. Sometimes it just happens, and I'm there. It was a very good drive home.
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Last night: the same grid of streets I always dream as a crappy approximation of the town I grew up in. They're never even close, but I know what they're supposed to be. I went down to Lisa's house (I dream about it a lot, I think because it was the first house that really impressed me, god knows why, maybe the fucking ostentatious ankle-deep carpet that was treacherous even in sneakers) and it had been turned into a bank. I looked in on cubicles of frantic typists.
Inside was an enormous new staircase. The bank president (owner? princess?) showed me upstairs to her private office. It looked out over a terrace, and suddenly I knew where I was. Logan and I had been there the night before. A picnic. We sat on the stones and they were still warm. When the sun was going down and there was just a tiny red sliver left I held onto his hands and said, Don't blink, don't blink.
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I forgot to mention that he licked my eyelids with his warm scratchy tongue. It was wonderful.
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