Can we please find a rooftop somewhere under the stars, or a shady patch of ground on a hot day, or a fire in the country, or a dock on a shimmering beach? Maybe, just maybe, the stars will drip a bit of mystery from the sky that will fall into our mouths. We can roll it around our tongues, then spit it back out and get to taste a bit of fear. I want our words to dance with each other in an unpracticed waltz and strike jealousy into the heart of hatred and love and life and death and all those giant golems that cast shadows over our minds.

Hold your ear up to my chest and listen, then cup your hands around that beating drum and make a megaphone that screams into the distant space. I'll reach, and maybe, just maybe, my hand will brush the moon and I can pluck it from the sky. We can keep it in a bucket and watch it swim like a jellyfish. I want our words to be the water, and I hope we drown too.

Maybe, just maybe, we'll never recover. We'll walk around like wounded soldiers with flashbacks of standing on the edge of some menacing cliff, flirting with inhuman forces. I'll push you off the edge if you promise to pull me with you.

So let's talk.