"This is the day you will always remember as the day you almost caught Captain Jack Sparrow."
Are you an orgasm expert?
From their website: “OM is a practice done between two people that has no goal except to feel what is happening in the moment. OM is not about more climax. (yes, Orgasm and Climax are different) It is about expanding the sweet spot of the most pleasurable part of Orgasm.”
I look at the sky, and I see blue. You lift your eyes and see the same, but I wonder, is your blue the same as mine? Perhaps my blue is your blood red, and your skies are always crimson. My pain may be your laughter. My sour, your sweet. My love, your hate. What do you feel when you feel love? I want to feel your taste, your sex, your hunger, your tears. Perhaps above all, I want to feel what you feel when you feel mine.
Tell me that happy endings aren’t only found in Disney movies and massage parlors in Chinatown. Just tell me, for once, that everything’s going to be okay.
It enrages me, this nonsensical notion that you can own a piece of the planet that is gracious enough to bear you, clothe you, and feed you, despite your astounding stupidity. How blind have you become, to spill the blood of your own brother in an attempt to own something that will never be yours? Then again, perhaps we shouldn’t be surprised, coming from the same people that think they can capture the sky.
Seen through the sphere near Columbus Circle.
You think I don’t give a shit about you because I can’t remember your name. You’re sure I don’t care about you because I can’t seem to remember your birthday, and I keep telling you the same things over and over and over again because I’ve forgotten I already told you. You think I don’t give a fuck because the things you tell me about your day just seem to spin right out of my brain. But there are things I remember, things I can’t tell you, things that don’t translate into words. I remember the way you talked when you got excited, how you interrupted yourself mid-sentence because something about your first sentence excited you more, and three words into that sentence you interrupted yourself again, and I remember how you’d get endearingly embarrassed because you thought I was laughing at you. I remember how you did your damndest to never let your feelings show. I remember how you kept your voice level when you were spitting mad and your eyes cold when you spoke about heartbreak. And I remember catching you listening to someone else’s story, and those dead black of eyes of yours just exploding with compassion and hurt and that kindness you tried so fucking hard to hide. I can’t remember your middle name or your favorite color, but your smile is burned into my fucking brain. I remember the look on your face when you come, and though I can’t remember what color your eyes are, fuck, I remember losing myself in them. I don’t remember the things you said to me that morning, but I’ll never forget the way you looked at me like you knew you were never going to see me again. I remember that last kiss at the train station, and I remember seeing you across the platform through the train window, both of us straining for one last look. So fuck your name and your birthday - I remember you.
A particularly creepy juxtaposition of objects in Times Square.