I was a child the moment you called me a child and I agreed.
I could, naturally, see the pickle you were in: I was a grown man who had frauded his youth away on sex and liberal arts and now I was sitting in the corner, crying over the fact that I had nothing to make a dollar off of, and, as such, made you make your own dollar last longer.
There are a lot of things such things depend on, not least of all time and what that counts to. You didn’t know what my hands were doing while you were typing, and I didn’t know what yours were doing while I was once typing as well.
I was typing things that I thought would be good. You were typing things that made you good.
I just listened to hours of songs that we would always fall asleep to, and somehow wake up in each others arms.
We would condition the point to cold, that it was too cold to be alone on the floor while you were own the own the bed.
We would fall asleep listening to the same Radiohead songs, singing the same lyrics in our heads and maybe not, but we’d fall asleep and want to immediately brush our teeth, just beause that was what health wanted us to do, but I would rather just bite and apple and then you, with differencing, yet possibly similar, reactions simply depending on the apple itself, half torn a and half perfect.