Where’ve you been, all this time?
I’ve been managing to avoid them really. I’m alright, it’s been a while. How’s life Spence?
There will always be a deep lingering part of me that will belong to the marble halls and the looming stone walls of Easton, Connecticut. The banks where I first tried weed, the spot by the river where I sputtered and coughed, and felt as though my chest as burning from in the inside out, or the place where I first fell in love, first fucked and thought it was love, all of those places, they’re all always going to be home.
Home is now just four walls guarded by a key that was pressed into my palm after I signed a lease. It’s a view over the city of dreams, and it’s two wagging tails when I come home. It’s an empty bed, and quiet nights. It’s all the things that I could of had, when I wake up before the sun, put on that suit and head into work.
Home isn’t a place, it’s the people and the memories that stick with you, it’s the moments where you think, oh shit I’m really going to die, and the moments where you think that you’re never going to touch the ground. It’s the dewy grass pressed to your back after you strolled into that lake, just because the moon was up and a beautiful girl told you that you should do it.
Home isn’t bringing in six digits after a dollar sign, with no one to share it with. Home isn’t loneliness, turning over picture frames of smiling faces, and hoping that one day you’ll meet the person who appears in every one again.
Home is the rivalries that seemed to be the most important things at the time, and a best friend who knew how much you loved rum and that you were willing to pose for a stupidly big camera lens. Home is hazel eyes that you’ve known forever, ones that you promised yourself that you’d marry one day. Home is the girl that you haven’t spoken to in years.
Home isn’t Paris, or New York, or as much as I’d like it to be, the Maldives. It’s in the back pockets of other people’s hearts and minds, and as always, in fucking Connecticut, where the roof tops of Hull Hall are undoubtedly still littered with the cigarettes of one former, Oliver Lovely.
You could almost say that we have a reputation.
You sure you don’t wanna go out Viking style? Off the coast on a barge, set ablaze with an flaming arrow?
The amount of effort. Also, what if people dare thing I’m self absorbed and conceited with such an exit?
We are friends, at least I’d like to be.
Incinerate has such a harsh tone to it.
Pour the gasoline and strike a match, goodbye Oliver Lovely. Pour my ashes into the sea.
That’s even more awkward, shit. I look forward to it.
That’s not at all romantic.
More so than incinerated.
Well, I don’t know your parents and they don’t know me and we’re not together so it was a little strange. My birthday’s coming up, save it for then.
I’m trying to understand what you’re getting at here.
I’m quitting while I’m ahead.
‘Cast into the flames of life’.I want to be incinerated. What’s the romantic term for that?
The word I was looking for was cremated.
How so? I would like to hear your side of the debate.
First of all, are you all high?
The water glows in the Maldives, sex in the water is highly recommended. But don’t tell Blyss, we’re meant to be married.
Thirteen years older than you. Too old.
Old enough for it not to be a crime.