Everybody wants to be a perpetual motion machine

People.

I have a friend who sees nothing but concrete and bars. Hears nothing but far off sounds and kitschy banter. Stories people tell him are tales rehashed and revisited, stories of missteps and rash decisions, of consequences. Boring stories. Thrilling stories. While he sits and whiles away the time, a hard hearted girl misses him. For everything he represented was most of what she was. And who he came from is wasting away, who he came from is missing his counterpart, missing his genes. They need each other, but bars and concrete decided to intervene at the last hour, what has been penned down as law has intercepted the last eternal moments origin and result can have together. When timing is utterly wrong, it is cruel. When timing is fluent and gorgeous it's called fate. When timing is average, you call it now.

I have a friend who has had the earth of his daily existence lost to him. Every step he takes is punctuated by the heart beats that keep him walking. Every successful inch brings him through additional pain, and the thrill of foreboding that haunts him during these promenades leaves him teetering on the brink of such intense anxiety that any second his heart may explode. Healing is hard, and she usually ambles hand in hand with fear. Fear that your earth may choose to be the earth of another. Fear takes the slow seconds that linger on the clock while every fiber of his being is on fire; healing waits patiently for fear, and fear takes his time. When his soul has had its' say, every dog has had his day.

I have a friend who I've written about before. He revels in odd and unknown experience. He is queer in mind, and innocent in soul. His choices reflect his skewed and imperfect sight on life. He is utterly artistic, in any form of the word. And when he chooses to return home, he is amongst the ghosts of immortal friends and green young girls. Gifts and ornaments from all reaches of the world join him in home. They remind him of the places he's been that he has never been to. He can hear the men of his tribe whispering down the hall. He sleeps all day and allows the noise.

I have a friend who lets every channel of her mind and every analytical part of her psyche control her. Every time she wakes up she confronts the myriad of options that could all potentially be perfect. As she canvasses through the details and seemingly endless avenues of any specific problem, she may reach a solution that her mind will inevitably deign to lose. And at this, she'll call you again for a new repetition.

I miss my friends -