“There is something compulsive about a telephone. The gadget-ridden man of our age loves it, loathes it, and is afraid of it. But he always treats it with respect, even when he is drunk. The telephone is a fetish.”—Raymond Chandler, “The Long Good-Bye”, 1953 (via anotherdayofnothing)
Today I woke up with mascara all down my face, covered in mosquito bites, shelled peanuts sitting in the bottom of my bag.
My favourite red dress splayed like a flower in full bloom across the floorboards beside my bed. My head feels heavy and my heart heavier still.
The mascara is there I guess from when I cried and you held me close, running your fingers through my hair and kissing me “better”. The mosquito bites are everywhere because we sat in the cold before I cried. The peanuts are there because we ate some and dropped some whilst we fumbled around in the basket for another.
One day it won’t hurt to think about the trees and the accidental kalimotxo and dripping ice-creams and hands bent around jaws and piggy-backs up hills and children’s shoes seeping out of shipping containers. It hurts now.